The Listening Walls
by simmysim
Summary: "Carol considered the prison to be a home, but it was a home that had taken much more than it had given... The walls of the prison didn't deserve these secrets, these private conversations." The losses pile up but the group grows in numbers - life at the prison for Daryl & Carol after Daryl leaves to retrieve Merle and bring him back to the group. (Spoilers for all of S3)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note, disclaimer, etc: Like most fanfics, I don't own any of these characters. That being said, I've realized that I love writing about them! Anyway, this is my first ever fanfic and I really enjoyed writing it... So I hope you enjoy reading! If you liked it or if you didn't (you know, whatever floats your boat) please leave a review and let me know what you think... Here we go!**

xxxx

_And love is not the easy thing_

_The only baggage you can bring_

_Is all that you can't leave behind_

- U2, "Walk On"

His chest heaved every time he inhaled. He took uneven, ragged breaths as the late afternoon sun beat down on him and the corpses. Arms spread wide like a child making an angel in the snow, Daryl suddenly wished he could close his eyes and forget everything he had just seen, everything he had just felt. He wanted to be swallowed into the earth.

It seemed like it had been hours, but he was sure only minutes had passed since he'd arrived at the Governor's designated meeting place. _Was this how Carol had felt?_ Daryl grimaced at the thought. He didn't need to add the sight of that little girl stumbling out of the barn to the list of things causing him pain at the moment. His body felt like a lead weight. His awareness of his surroundings was minimal; the trees he could see out of the corner of his eyes were blurred. The birds and insects in the woods nearby were chirping and buzzing happily but all Daryl could hear was a loud ringing in his ears.

He had a sudden urge to take his knife and drive it into the back of his own hand, certain the pain of the blade piercing his skin would be better than the numbness he currently felt; _anything_ had to feel better than the complete emptiness that had consumed him since putting Merle down. The only thing that stopped him was the reminder that his knife was dirty; it was soaked in the blood of a walker. A walker that shared _his _blood. _How was this possible?_ _Nobody could kill Merle but Merle._ It had crossed Daryl's mind that maybe Merle had set off on a suicide mission after realizing he would never be welcomed by the prison group. But Daryl had seen other human bodies lying amongst the walkers. _These must have been the Governor's men_. Merle had gone out swinging. The knowledge that Merle had done what he could to protect his baby brother only made Daryl more miserable.

He rolled over onto his side and tried to refocus his eyes. He spotted his crossbow lying only a few feet away, equidistant between him and his dead brother. He felt almost too weak to lift himself up off the ground. He'd only been walking for a few hours, but his feet felt tired and blistered. The fingers that had gripped his knife were still curled into a loose fist. His eyelids were swollen and his lips were dry. He could feel the salt that had dried onto his cheeks.

He'd never cried this much before, not even when his mother had died. He instantly knew why he'd always tried so hard to push people away. _The loss – the inevitable, awful loss –of those closest to you would devour you unless you fought your way out of it._ That's what he and Merle had always done. They'd fought – outsiders and, occasionally, each other – to survive. There wasn't anyone remaining in this world who would understand exactly what Daryl had grown up with, and it was that feeling, above all others, that made Daryl feel alone.

After what seemed like an eternity, he pushed himself up into a seated position, forearms trembling and weak. Without looking at Merle's face, he crawled towards his brother and looked up and down his body. His left hand was missing two fingers. Daryl winced when he considered how much that must have hurt his brother, forgetting that he'd been strong enough to saw his own hand off on a rooftop in Atlanta.

His eyes then moved across his brother's chest, where he saw it: a single gunshot wound. The realization of what had happened dawned on Daryl and a newfound pulse of rage swelled up inside of him. When he'd ended Merle's undead life, he'd been consumed by a blind rage, a pure anger and hatred towards the cruel world that could take loved ones away, only to taunt their kin by bringing their bodies back to life. But this –this realization that a human being could purposefully do such a cruel and disrespectful thing to his brother built a new, focused anger in him.

He stood up, hesitating for a second as the blood rushed from his head to the rest of his body. He leaned over and picked up his crossbow, swinging it over his back. He then picked up his knife, wiping it on his pants before carefully inserting it back into his belt loop. For a few moments he considered going to Woodbury that instant, storming their barricades and putting an arrow through the Governor's forehead. But another part of him – the part that had flourished since they'd found Merle's hand on the roof – thought better of that plan. It would be dark soon. He'd never made the journey to Woodbury on foot and he didn't want to be ambushed by a walker, or worse.

Back on his two feet, Daryl allowed himself to remember the day Shane had opened the barn. He'd held Carol against him, against her will, as Sophia ambled towards them. He hadn't meant for it to be an act of compassion - or worse, love. He'd merely wanted to save Carol from herself and prevent the group's numbers from dwindling further. Yet, as he slowly and painfully made his way back to the prison, he realized that he was the only who had tried to stop her. The others had been paralyzed by shock and despair. Daryl had been the only one with enough sense to stop Carol from running into the arms of death.

He hadn't been able to understand Carol's actions then. _Why would she willingly run towards a monster, something she _knew _was dangerous?_ _She should have known and understood the threat_. But then, as Daryl trudged over dead branches and mossy stones, he realized that he'd just done the exact same thing. He'd pushed Merle away, not once, not twice, but three times. It was the only way he had been able to touch his brother without being harmed by him. He couldn't put him down – not right away. If he hadn't become consumed by the fury that had burst inside of him he, too, would have probably done exactly what Carol had done. Only in his case, nobody would have been there to keep him from his brother's embrace.

xxxx

From the bunk in her cell Carol listened for the noises of the others as they gathered their belongings. Every few minutes she could hear the shuffling of boots on the cold concrete of the prison floor, or the muffled, hushed voices of those nearest to her in the cell block. Even though they were the sole living occupants of the prison, the impending, inevitable assault on their refuge had made their words seem precious; there seemed to be an unspoken fear that if they spoke too loudly their voices would bounce off the grey walls, stretching farther away from the nearest living thing and spiralling into the darkness of the tombs. Carol considered the prison to be a home, but it was a home that had taken much more than it had given. They had already lost so many lives and happy moments to this place. The walls of the prison didn't deserve these secrets, these private conversations.

Carol leaned forward in her bunk, her feet solidly pressed into the ground, resting her elbows on her knees. She stretched her hands out in front of her, spreading her fingers wide, and then balled them into fists. She repeated this movement over again, watching as her knuckles turned white every time her pale skin stretched at the joints. She had already packed the few remaining possessions she had; it hadn't taken her long. She knew what was needed to survive out there, and most of it was communal, packed into duffel bags that had already been loaded into the cars. Her backpack contained only her spare clothes, her toothbrush and Sophia's tattered, filthy doll.

Despite what the others may have thought, Carol didn't keep the doll because it reminded her of Sophia; she had plenty of memories of her daughter to draw upon if need be. She kept the doll because of the hope it represented and the selflessness that had been required to get it back. In the days after the barn had been opened, Carol had kept the doll hidden away, stashed in the back of a cupboard in Dale's RV. She hadn't liked imagining how Sophia may have dropped it after tripping on a tree root in the woods while futilely attempting to outpace the walkers that had pursued her. It had pained her even more to imagine her little girl losing a grip on the doll as her hands trembled in shock and her body was overcome with the terrible fever.

But as she came out of the grieving process, she'd realized that she, Carol, was still alive. She didn't share blood with any other members of the group, but then, only the Grimes and Greene families could lay claim to that. And then she'd seen that others around her still had hope for the future. She had seen it in Lori's eyes when she'd instinctively rub her slowly growing belly. She had seen it in Dale as he nervously wringed his hat in his hands while Andrea had agreed that they should keep Randall alive. And finally, she realized that she'd seen it in T-Dog's hand as he carried it towards the Greene's farmhouse after Daryl had come back looking only slightly more alive than the walkers he'd narrowly escaped. She knew that Daryl wasn't the only one who would risk his life for another in the group, and so she kept the doll as a testament to the humanity and compassion that had kept them all together.

Yet as she looked over at her backpack propped up against the side of the bunk, she could only think of the doll and what Daryl had done that day: what he'd done for her little girl and what he'd done for her. She remembered the story Andrea had told her one day, while Carol had been voicing her thoughts out loud and wondering why it was that Daryl looked relentlessly for Sophia even as the others' interest in her search waned. Alone in the cell, she realized that as selfless of an act as retrieving that doll had been, Daryl had also done it for the child he once was.

She tried to imagine what it must have been like to be a child in an abusive household. She squeezed her eyelids shut and reminded herself that Sophia hadn't lived like Daryl, that Sophia had a mother who cared for her dearly and tried to protect her, even though she could hardly ever protect herself. Daryl, on the other hand, had a mother who went up in flames and a father who undoubtedly deserved the same fate as his wife. From the tidbits of his past that Daryl had ever shared with her, Carol knew that he had been raised in joint custody by his father's belt, the backwoods and Merle.

A wave of sadness washed over her as she came out of her late evening reverie. She shouldn't be thinking these thoughts now, not when the Governor and his so-called army were at their doorstep with heavy artillery and promises of suffering. She shouldn't be sitting by her lonesome, pitying the one person who had never shown her pity, but silently understood her pain. Daryl was the closest anyone had ever come to being what she considered a soul mate. _Do such things exist anymore?_ she wondered. After all, pickings were mighty slim at the end of the world. _Yes, they do_, another part of her answered.

Just then, a peal of laughter broke out from the cell where Maggie and Glenn were packing their own bags. _They most definitely do_. She loved each member of the group like family. She wished they could have stayed at the prison and healed from the loss of T-Dog and Lori as a group. But that wasn't how life was anymore; there was no time to properly mourn, heal and move on. They simply let the blows come; picking up what was left after the beatings and continuing on past the end of the world. _Is this really what we've become?_

Despite her best efforts, Carol couldn't help but look back at the backpack sitting a little ways down the mattress from her, challenging her to push forward with pragmatism but pulling her back with nostalgia. _If this is what we've really become_, she continued, "then why did I pack the doll?" She said this last part out loud. Maybe, just this time, the rough cinderblock would have an answer for her.

After a few moments of silence, she had answered the question herself. This wasn't what they'd become. This wasn't what Rick's speech earlier had been about. He had been about reclaiming their humanity, banding together. It was true that they were gearing up for war, and Carol was determined to fight for her life and for the others. Above all, though, she wanted to fight for compassion. She wanted to keep that aspect of the past alive until the bitter end. She couldn't see why they should lose that now, and so Carol promised herself that tonight, as she said her goodbyes to the thin mattress and cold metal bars, she would cherish every bit of empathy she had come across in her past, and make every effort to share that kindness with others.

"It's as good a night as any," she admitted aloud, smiling to herself when she realized that she had echoed Daryl's exact words from what seemed like ages ago. The thought of him made her stomach clench. She ran her boots back and forth over the hard floor. She could feel the dirt and stones roll under the treads. When Daryl had spoken those words he had been referring to the act of letting go of life. Carol reached above her head and pulled herself up from underneath the bunk she used to occupy when Lori was still with them. She had spoken those words to remind herself that tonight, more than ever, they needed to hold on to each other and to the last vestiges of hope for the future that still hung in the damp prison air.

Carol paused before leaving her cell. Sometimes, on the quietest of nights before falling asleep, she could hear Daryl compulsively tapping a bolt against the frame of his crossbow. He played the weapon like an instrument, and she liked to imagine that every so often he would twirl a bolt around his finger like a drummer adding a flourish to a concert-ending solo. On rare occasions, his bag of bolts or the crossbow itself would slip off the edge of his bunk. The clang of metal against concrete would ring throughout the cellblock, followed by a string of curse words that Daryl would mutter under his breath.

Carol knew that these nightly disturbances tended to wake the others, but not her. She could lie awake for hours before falling asleep, not because she thought too much about what the next day would bring, but because she thought too little. When Sophia had gone missing, she would silently weep as she willed her eyes to close and embrace the peaceful sleep that those around her seemed to enjoy. But now, she realized that she could find peace by staying awake, listening to water rhythmically drip from the prison taps and smiling as Daryl cursed himself for waking the others.

Tonight, however, there was no way Carol would have been able to hear him through the cinderblock, not with the reserved commotion of those around her. It didn't matter anyway; she knew he wasn't preparing his crossbow for the upcoming fight. She also knew his possessions were still strewn across the cell, exactly how he'd left them before leaving to find Merle.


	2. Chapter 2

_Don't lose your faith in me_

_And I will try not to lose faith in you_

_Don't put your trust in walls _

'_Cause walls will only crush you when they fall_

- Ray Lamontagne, "Be Here Now"

Before leaving her cell, Carol stopped to consider what had happened since Rick had broken the news to her about Merle. Daryl had returned to the prison less than two hours earlier.

Carol was inside, laying clean blankets on the bottom of Judith's crib. The infant was being taken for a stroll around the common area by Beth, who cradled the child in her arms while humming an old Bob Dylan song. Suddenly, she heard a door open and slam closed. Seconds later Rick, who was supposed to be on watch, came hurrying down the steps with the same determination he'd had after returning from Woodbury without Daryl. When he passed Beth and his daughter without even acknowledging them, Carol knew there was something wrong. The man stopped abruptly beside the crib, standing with his hands on hips and chewing the inside of his cheek. Carol dropped the blanket she had been holding and searched Rick's face for a hint of what he was about to tell her. He reached a hand up to his face and rubbed his forehead.

"Daryl's back."

The simplicity of his words relieved Carol of a stress that she didn't even realize was building inside of her, but she couldn't understand why Rick still looked so distraught. Rick must have noticed her confusion, because he continued, "alone."

She frowned, panic growing in her again as it became clear that she hadn't fully understood what Rick was trying to tell her. She bit her lip and considered what it must have meant if Daryl, an expert tracker, had been unable to find his brother, even though everyone had known exactly where Merle was going.

"He- he didn't find his brother?"

A shadow passed over Rick's face as he looked down at his feet, kicking a pebble that had made its way inside the prison. Carol knew the answer to her question before she asked it, but she hoped that maybe – just maybe – Rick would prove her wrong.

"No, that's the thing. He did."

Carol nodded solemnly, but then suddenly felt light-headed. She gripped the edge of Judith's crib. Despite their abusive pasts and well-hidden vulnerabilities, the Dixon brothers had always seemed invincible when it came to death. She had a hard time imagining Merle spread-eagled on the ground, eyes open but unseeing. Without warning, an image of Daryl's own lifeless body flashed in front of her eyes and she felt herself become off-balance with tunnel vision. Instinctively, Rick reached out and grabbed her shoulder, steadying her in place.

"Are you alright?" His eyebrows knotted together as he observed Carol with concern.

Carol blinked quickly, thankful for Rick's firm grip on her shoulder. She felt foolish. Daryl was still alive. He was, at most, a few hundred feet away from her. He probably wished he, too, were dead, but their cruel world wasn't kind enough to hand out such an ending to a decent human being.

She brushed a bead of sweat from her hairline and shook her head, trying to bring herself back to the present situation. "I'm fine. It just doesn't get easier, does it? Not even when it's somebody like Merle." She gave Rick a sad smile and picked up the blanket she had dropped only a moment earlier. The selfish part of her wanted to drop what she was doing and run out to see him. She wanted to hold him close and see for herself that Daryl was still a living, breathing human being. But the other, more realistic part of her knew that that wasn't what Daryl needed.

Carol focused all of her efforts on laying down the blankets and arranging the toys Maggie and Glenn had brought back from an earlier supply run. Rick shifted uncomfortably in place, burying his hands in his pockets and awkwardly watching Carol make up his daughter's crib. She appeared to be putting an unnecessary amount of effort into the menial task at hand. After several seconds, Carol realized that Rick hadn't yet left her side. She was used to having others watch her work, but his presence now was somewhat unnerving. She turned to face him and crossed her arms. She watched how he chewed on the inside of his cheek and rocked back and forth in his boots. She could sense that he was struggling internally with something that he couldn't quite put into words.

Carol's eyes widened as she finally succeeded at identifying the searching expression on Rick's face. She knew why Rick was still standing in front of her instead of spreading the news to the others, and the realization made her feel self-conscious and pleased at the same time. He was waiting for her to say something. He, Rick Grimes, was the main reason the group had bonded so cohesively over the winter. And yet, here he stood, looking to Carol for advice.

"Where is he now?" Her voice came out weaker than she had intended it to.

"Between the outer fences."

She nodded and drew in a deep breath. "Is he in danger?" She spoke more clearly this time, her confidence in her knowledge of Daryl slowly growing.

Rick shook his head. "He was just pacing back and forth when I left. He's probably still doing it now."

Carol could feel a pit growing in her stomach. A distraught, upset Daryl would probably have been stabbing walkers through the fence; taunting them by rattling the lattice and removing his fingers only milliseconds before they grabbed him. _But this?_ She'd never seen him obsessively cover the same steps over and over again as a means of processing emotion. She figured he would rather be reckless, but doing so would require too much energy.

"Did you speak with him?"

Rick nodded. "He told me he got there too late. Said there were other bodies. I assume he meant bodies that hadn't turned."

"Anything else?"

"I didn't ask." Rick eyed her cautiously, waiting to see if he'd made the right decision.

Carol gave Rick a small, reassuring smile. "Let him be. He'll come inside when he's ready." She reached over and gathered Judith's dirty blankets in her arms, then moved to place them in a nearby duffel bag.

Rick stepped in front of her and held a hand out to stop her. "Are you sure that's a wise choice?"

Carol started to feel annoyed with the man facing her. Even though Rick was looking to her for advice, he was still the leader of the group and he always considered others' opinions at length before approving of them.

"You said there were other bodies? They're probably the Governor's men." She stepped around Rick and started to fold the blankets into a neat pile. "Now, I'm pretty sure that if the Governor's body had been among those Daryl had seen he would have mentioned that to you. If that was the case we'd probably sleep a little easier tonight." She paused for a moment before continuing: "that being said, I don't think the Governor plans on coming for us tonight. He probably wants to rally his people. Get them angry about these most recent deaths before mobilizing." Carol was starting to shock herself with the confidence with which she was speaking. She felt a sense of empowerment she'd never had before. She turned, her gaze meeting Rick's. "Whoever's on watch needs to keep a close eye on him. But nobody is coming for us tonight."

After considering Carol's words for a few moments, Rick finally nodded in agreement. She nodded back and folded the last blanket onto the pile. Carol could tell that Rick was feeling more relaxed as he took a step back from her, looking her up and down before playfully tilting his head to one side.

"Now, tell me why I never noticed you before."

Carol couldn't help but crack a smile at Rick's moment of levity. He'd become such a burdened man that she had feared he would never know how to make light of a situation again.

"Go say hello to your daughter. She hasn't seen you for hours."

"Thank you, Carol," he reached out and squeezed her hand before turning to relieve Beth of her parenting duties.

Carol smiled back at him, but as soon as he left she could feel the light-headedness creep up on her again. She placed the blankets in the bag and carefully pulled the zipper closed. As she looked through the prison bars at the late afternoon sun her thoughts had already drifted to the solitary figure outside, stalking the prison's outer fence in search of a peace of mind that Carol was afraid he'd never find.

xxxx

Daryl's walk back to the prison felt miles longer than the trip out. He almost completely checked out mentally, mindlessly putting one foot in front of the other. He kept a very slight awareness of the world around him; it was just enough to keep him alive. His vision was still fuzzy around the edges but his ears, trained after years of tracking, stayed focused on any unnatural sounds. He was approached by only a few walkers, and when they approached him he chose to tackle them with his knife, rather than load a bolt into his crossbow. He let them come as close to him as possible before taking them down. He teased himself in these moments; if he waited only a second or two more they'd be on him, feasting, and he'd be gone soon enough; the Dixon brothers would be reunited once more. His hatred towards the Governor came perilously close to boiling over inside of him every time he drove the knife, over and over again, into the walkers' skulls. After each kill he remained kneeling for a few moments, lightheaded and trying to catch his breath.

"Get up you piece of shit," he muttered to himself. He wasn't used to this fatigue. Each walker kill was a struggle as he found it more and more difficult to get back up on his feet.

When the prison's exterior guard towers finally came into view, the sun was creeping perilously close to the horizon. In Daryl's mind, it should have set hours ago. He'd wanted to be able to slip inside, unseen in the darkness. He cursed as he saw Rick watching him from a distance, looking out at him through the scope of his rifle as he stood behind an old wooden palette.

As he approached the outer yard of the prison, he noticed that Rick had abandoned his position on watch. Daryl fumbled for the keys on his belt loop and noticed that his hands were shaking. _What was _that _about?_ He considered his new weakness for only a short time as a searing pain burst through his temples. He'd managed to unlock the gate that sealed off the exterior catwalk from the prison yard and stepped inside, turning to lock it again before he saw Rick sprinting towards him, calling his name.

He cursed again. Head throbbing, he held the gate open for the man and swung it shut as Rick joined him in the outer walkway. For a moment he wished he could have been nine years old again, returning home after his adventure in the woods alone and uncared for.

"You didn't find him?"

Daryl stopped in his tracks and locked his eyes on the portion of the fence that had been cut open and then mended with wire on the day they'd found the prison. "Got there too late," he said through gritted teeth.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rick make a move towards him, reaching out a hand to pull him into an awkward hug. Daryl turned to face him but flinched as he took a step back from the other man. He stared at the center of Rick's chest. He didn't want to go into details. If he spoke the words out loud they'd be final and definite. As it was, the rest of the world didn't yet know the details of Merle's death. That thought was less comforting than Daryl hoped it would be; he felt burdened by his own knowledge.

Rick knew that he must have looked shocked by the news, but he kept himself composed as he watched Daryl. He was in a trance, and Rick suddenly felt like he'd intruded on a private conversation Daryl was having with himself. He turned to leave his friend alone, but before he could make off in a sprint back towards the building he heard Daryl speak behind him.

"There were others. Bodies," he said, his gaze still not meeting Rick's.

His expression was unreadable, but Rick felt that Daryl had wanted him to understand something nonetheless. He wasn't one to say more than he needed to.

"Alright."

Daryl watched as Rick ran back towards the prison. He balled his hands into fists and berated himself for telling Rick too much. He turned on his heel, grinding his boot into the gravel. The sound of the rocks rubbing against each other grated at his already throbbing head, but he kept walking. After a short distance he turned to walk the other way, his body at loose ends as his mind wasn't strong enough to tell it to do anything else.

As the minutes passed he became filled with dread. Rick had probably gathered everyone in the cell block and told them the news. He imagined a welcome party coming across the yard in the truck to greet him with sympathy and sad eyes. He closed his eyes and stood still for a moment.

He remembered the day they'd opened the barn. He'd sat in the RV, watching Carol as she silently grieved. He hadn't tried to comfort her with words. He wouldn't have known what to say, but it didn't matter; nothing he said would have helped anyways. He'd been disappointed when she hadn't joined them for Sophia's funeral. _Didn't she want to say goodbye to her little girl?_ So many of the things Carol had done over the course of those few days hadn't made sense to Daryl but he'd accepted them anyways. He opened his eyes again and looked down at his dusty boots. The thumping of blood pumping in his ears reminded him that he was still alive. He realized that he wanted what Carol had wanted, but he doubted he would be afforded that same luxury of solitude.

He hitched his pants up higher around his hips and resumed his pacing, waiting for the moment when he'd hear the revving of the truck engine or the sound of someone's voice calling out his name. Mercifully, no one came.

xxxx

For at least an hour he walked the length of the fence, turning every fifty feet or so to head back in the direction from which he'd come. He was engaged in a sick sort of meditation, reliving the worst moment of his life over and over in his mind. _There was Merle, kneeling in front of him. He looked up from his most recent meal and focused his bloodshot eyes instead on his baby brother_. Daryl heard the scraping of hard rubber on rock and realized that the sound was coming from his own boots rubbing against the gravel as each of his steps barely cleared the ground beneath his feet.

The noise brought him back to the prison yard and he looked around to see that the sun had already set; the sky and the clouds were painted with various shades of pink and purple. Daryl squinted towards the looming concrete and metal building and spotted Carl staring back at him through binoculars.

As much as he didn't want to, he knew he'd have to go inside eventually. His feet were tired and his head still ached, but he didn't like admitting that he needed rest. He wasn't looking forward to the inevitable barrage of questions he'd soon face and the places his mind would wander as he stared at the wall of his cell, but he thought that if he stayed out any longer he might keel over. If he did that there'd be panic, noise and - even worse - _people_; the ensuing commotion would cause more trouble than he was worth.

Resigned, he opened the gate and headed toward the inner yard at jog. The walkers in the yard must have sensed his emotional vacancy and deemed him to be just like them because they paid him almost no mind as he reached the inner gate. Carl was already there, waiting for him. Miraculously, he pulled the gate open and let Daryl pass through without saying a single word to him. He closed the gate and returned to his lookout as if Daryl had only been ghost, floating through another world that was separate from the one occupied by the people around him.

The metal stairs leading to the common area rattled with every step he took, and he instantly wished the walls had been made of something softer than concrete. The common area was empty, save for a few duffel bags that he supposed were to be packed into a vehicle. Before entering the cell block he inhaled deeply and braced himself for the onslaught of pity bound to come his way.

Rounding the corner, though, he saw only Glenn, seated under the windows counting boxes of ammo. The young man did a double-take as he saw that it was Daryl who had entered and not Carl. Glenn wordlessly acknowledged Daryl's presence with a nod and Daryl nodded back at him in return. The young man looked back down at the boxes of ammunition spread out in front of him and resumed his counting. For the first time, Daryl stopped to take in his surroundings. From what he could tell, the group was dispersed; everyone, save for Glenn and Carl, was in their respective cells.

Carol had been kneeling beside her bed, sweeping an arm underneath the bunk for any last items to pack, when she noticed a shift in the shadows being cast across her floor. She looked up to see Daryl craning his neck, surveying the cell block. Her heart sank and she felt her mouth dry out as she watched him. His skin was layered with more dirt and sweat than she'd ever seen before but she could still make out the gauntness of the features in his face. She took in how his arms hung limply at his sides and his shoulders slumped. Rather than being strapped proudly across his back, his crossbow was gripped loosely in one hand, lightly skimming the floor. Then, without warning, his gazed quickly shifted to the stairs that led up to the second row of cells and he was gone in a flash of worn leather and dirt.

Daryl had only seen Carol for an instant, out of the corner of his eye, but he had still been able to make out her clear blue eyes watching him from her cell. He felt an unexplained panic rise in him and he took off towards his cell before she could say a word to him. With his heart hammering in his chest and his head pounding, he rounded the corner into his cell and collapsed onto the bottom bunk. He saw the grey wall, inches from his face, for only a few seconds before the world around him faded to quiet blackness.

**A/N: OK so I know some of you are probably wanting some more direct Carol/Daryl interaction, but I'm trying to keep the action as "in character" as possible (at least, this is what my brain believes is in character for both of them). Fear not though, the third and (I presume) final chapter will hopefully satisfy most! Thanks for reading**


	3. Chapter 3

_Take the weakest thing in you_

_And then beat the bastards with it_

_And always hold on when you get love_

_So you can let go when you give it_

- Stars, "Hold on When You Get Love and Let Go When You Give it"

Daryl's sleep ended almost as abruptly as it had begun; for the first time in his life he wished he was capable of a heavy slumber. But when Maggie and Glenn's laughter reached his cell he jerked awake, confused and angry. His eyes darted around the cell and his ears pricked, listening for the sound of Merle's breathing above his bunk. In an instant he felt exhausted again as the pressure in his head began to build once more. He rolled over onto his back and pushed himself up, leaning his back against the cell wall. He brought his knees close to his chest and allowed his mind to drift back to the afternoon's events. Over and over again, he replayed those fateful seconds in his mind, until he heard the hollow sound of footsteps coming up the metal stairs in the cellblock.

Carol stepped lightly as she walked up the stairs, careful not to disturb the persistent murmur of voices that filled the cellblock with a warm symphony. She approached his cell quietly, not wanting to disturb him if he was asleep. When she turned the corner, though, he was seated upright, looking just as he had before he'd disappeared up the stairs half an hour earlier. She sat against the wall opposite the bunk beds and quickly took in her surroundings before looking back at Daryl. He hadn't moved a muscle when she'd entered but he knew she was there.

"I know you don't want to talk," she said at last.

"Then why are you here." He phrased it as a statement rather than a question. He knew perfectly well why she was there. He just didn't know what else to say.

He kept his eyes trained straight ahead, unblinking and exhausted. Carol knew that when Daryl felt nervous or uncomfortable in someone's presence he'd fidget and deliberately avoid eye contact. But here, his hands were still, resting heavily on his knees, while Carol knew that behind his eyes he was seeing more than just the wall of the cell he formerly shared with Merle. She glanced down at her own hands once again. Closing and opening them. Closing them into a ball, laying them open on her lap in front of her.

"In case you feel like you need to."

Daryl squinted and gave a slight snort at her feeble attempts to tease out the grief he was feeling. It was the half-hearted version of an expression she'd seen plenty of times before: when she'd somewhat jokingly suggested they screw around that first night in the prison; expressing her fear at losing him after being pierced in the side by his own arrow. It was his way of brushing her off, convincing himself that she couldn't possibly be taking her own words seriously, regardless of how sincere her expression was.

"Shouldn't you be packin' right now?" He surveyed the floor surrounding his bunk, where his own belongings were still strewn haphazardly about the cell and bits of mattress fluff stuck to the clothes he had left lying around. They were all that was left of Merle's last-ditch effort to escape the prison confines without actually passing through the broken gates. He grimaced at this last thought but Carol didn't notice.

She shrugged, absent-mindedly touching the bare ring finger on her left hand. "I pack real quick."

Daryl nodded once, seemingly satisfied with her simple explanation.

But she continued, "I used to practice, you know." She smiled to herself. "Packing. Sometimes, when Ed went out drinking, after I'd helped Sophia get to bed, I'd pack a duffel bag with some personal stuff. You know. Things Sophia and I would need if we were to leave him. I'd hear the car door slam in the early morning hours after I'd lain awake praying to God to forgive me for even considering leaving Ed. Then I'd rush to unpack everything before he managed to stumble into the bedroom."

She paused and glanced up at Daryl. Although his gaze had returned to the wall opposite him, his eyes had grown wider and he was gripping his knees tighter.

"Sometimes he never made it all the way up the stairs." She chuckled to herself, shaking her head. "That was my version of a vacation: the idea that I could leave him in the middle of the night with my eleven year old daughter and an old gym bag."

Daryl bit down on his lower lip until he could taste the metallic sweetness of his own blood in his mouth. The foreign taste on his tongue reminded him that he hadn't eaten anything all day, yet wasn't hungry for the few cans of food that remained unpacked in the common area below. For a brief moment he thought that maybe he'd been bit, that maybe he was being drained of his energy and hunger by a fever that would soon reunite him with Merle in whatever twisted afterlife existed for the two of them. But the fact that Carol was sitting across from him, offering her ear and her patience rather than a damp cloth and bandages, reminded Daryl that she was there trying to dress wounds that were deeper than a walker bite.

"Didn't think I'd signed up to be your shrink," he muttered, looking down at his knuckles. They were still crusted with his brother's dried blood, the only part of Merle that he'd brought back with him to the prison.

Carol smiled, "I'm sorry. I know sometimes I talk too much."

Daryl nodded, but Carol wasn't sure if it was out of agreement or just a habit.

Silence fell on the two of them again as Carol looked out the cell towards the window, where she could see that the evening twilight had already disappeared into the night. A cool breeze blew through the bars and settled around them. Carol crossed her arm across her chest in an attempt to keep warm and turned her gaze back onto Daryl, who seemed to remain untouched by the newfound chill in the air.

"I can leave if you want me to," she said, "just say the word."

Daryl shifted his position to bring his knees closer to his chest but remained silent. When Daryl had moved his camp farther away from the rest of the group after opening the barn she hadn't let him pull away; she hadn't wanted to give him the easy way out. This time, though, she gave him the chance to isolate himself by offering it to him on a silver platter, knowing it was easier for him to tell her to leave than it was for him to ask her to stay.

She'd never made these situations easy on him in the past, and so she considered why it was that she had changed her approach this time. _Is it because he's become someone who no longer runs from human comfort?_ She knew that wasn't it; at least, not entirely. The main reason she'd given him the chance to pull away was because this time she wasn't afraid of losing him. Losing him to death terrified her, as did losing anyone else in the group. _But losing him to himself?_ She didn't fear that anymore. She trusted that he wouldn't and his silence confirmed her instincts.

"When this is all over..." she began. She paused and looked out the window. It was so difficult to talk about the future anymore when nobody's was certain. It was equally as tough to remember the past when so much of the past had died, turned, or been put down. _The people of the present_, she repeated to herself, _are the only thing it would be wise to hold on to._ "I know you weren't able to bring him back. We'll find somewhere nice after and we'll remember him."

He froze at her suggestion and Carol feared she'd said the wrong thing. She remembered Hershel telling her that Lori and T-Dog's graves had been empty. They did what they could to honour their dead, and although Carol didn't know any specifics, she didn't want him to think that Merle's death had been any less honourable than T-Dog or Lori's.

"I mean, if we're able to we could go back and get him so that nothing else can get to him first..."

She turned to look back at him and felt her heart drop to down to her stomach. In that instant, she put the pieces together. She saw the blood on his knuckles and the brown stains on the hilt of his knife. More than anything, though, she saw the defeat in his posture and the devastation in his eyes. It was a feeling she herself was all too familiar with.

She should have seen it coming, and scolded herself for having assumed otherwise. Merle was a strong man. He was quick with his blade and with a gun, but most importantly, he was cunning. Walkers wouldn't have gotten to him. Then she remembered the reason why they were all packing: they were facing an enemy worse than walkers. _This_ enemy could control and direct his own actions in addition to the actions of others. He was living and breathing and cruel. And with that realization, she knew exactly what had happened. She understood.

Daryl glanced at Carol as she faltered with her words. She'd stopped rubbing her arms for warmth and had turned her gaze back to him. The instant his sights locked in on hers, he knew. There were hundreds of things she could have said to him at that moment but she left all of them unspoken.

He felt a burning sensation returning behind his eyes and squeezed them shut, trying to will the pain away. _There it was_. He felt the weight of his knowledge being lifted off his shoulders as reality came crashing down, tightening his chest and forcing him to inhale with deep, shaky breaths.

Before she realized what she was doing, Carol silently and instinctively moved across the room to join Daryl on his bed. She sat cross-legged across from him so that her shins rested on his feet. Daryl moved to hastily wipe the tears that had escaped from his eyes but Carol reached out and grabbed his left hand before he could move it away.

Daryl felt the warmth enveloping his own hand and froze, eyes still closed. He was afraid of how close she'd be when he opened them; even worse, he feared that when he opened them she'd be gone and his hand would be cold again. He took a few more deep breaths and finally, comfortably, fixed his eyes on hers.

"I know you said you got there too late," she said softly.

He nodded. The regret was almost worse than the loss itself.

"But you didn't Daryl," she continued, "You can't tell yourself you were too late and you can't think there was anything more you could have done."

Daryl swallowed hard but didn't say anything. She was so wrong_. How was it that she could be so wrong about this? _After all they'd been through and after all they knew about each other, Daryl had never been so mystified by Carol's words before.

"I could have stopped him," he said finally. "That's what I could have done."

"How? You -" she hesitated, unsure of whether to refer to Merle in the past or present tense. She took a deep breath and thought of her own daughter. _Sophia died a long time ago._

"You knew Merle better than I can ever claim to," she said at last. "But there are two things I know that nobody – _nobody_ – could ever convince him to change: his mind... And his love for you." She paused, cradling his cold hand in both of hers. "So you didn't get there too late. You were there."

She reached a hand up to his face and brushed several dirty strands of hair away from his eyes.

"You were always there."

The tears spilled over, hot and fast, but he let them fall into his lap. Even though his vision was clouded he could still see Carol discretely reach a hand up to her own face and wipe her cheek.

Carol's words rang truer than anything he'd been trying to reason with all day. He felt an emotion wash over him that was stronger than simple gratitude and kinder than basic understanding. Without knowing what else to do, he leaned forward and rested his head on his knees, gripping his shins tightly with his free arm. He could feel his tears slowly soaking through his pants, already coated in blood, sweat and dirt.

Carol remained cross-legged on the bed, but pushed herself closer to Daryl and leaned into him, pressing her forehead against his and bringing her other hand to rest on the back of his neck. She closed her eyes and said nothing more.

xxxx

They stayed like that until Daryl's breathing slowed and his grip on his shins loosened. At one point he cleared his throat and Carol took it as a sign that he was growing uncomfortable with their position. She sat back upright and brought one of her hands back onto her lap but didn't move the one that still held his hand. He looked up at her with red-rimmed, heavy-lidded eyes. He was surprised at the fact that they had finally moved; he was even more perplexed when he realized he'd been in that position in the first place.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

Carol smiled and looked down at her hand, clasped over his. "I told you. I'm a quick packer." She looked back up at him as he rubbed the back of his hand on his forehead, smearing the dirt that had found its way into his hairline. "Besides. My other plans fell through." She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze and then dropped it to reach into her pocket for a scrap of relatively clean fabric. "Here," she offered it to him.

Daryl took the cloth from her but shook his head. "I mean before. That was you, right?"

Carol furrowed her brow in confusion. She couldn't figure out what she had done since she'd last seen him that had warranted gratitude. She'd only seen him while she was packing for a split second before he'd disappeared to his cell, and she wasn't even sure that he'd seen her in that instant.

Daryl cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his bunk. "Everyone's always up in everyone else's business," he continued. "I just... I needed to be..." he closed his eyes and shook his head, struggling to put the right words together. "I probably would have socked anyone who came to see me out there."

Carol's breath caught in her throat and she instantly felt embarrassed. It was one thing to be speaking to Rick about Daryl; it was another to accept that he knew just as much about her as she knew about him.

"It's what we do, right?" She took his hand in hers again.

He nodded slowly as a second, more peaceful, wave of fatigue washed over him. Carol noticed as he blinked more slowly than normal, trying in vain to keep his eyes open.

"I'll let you get some sleep," she said, uncrossing her legs and placing her feet back on the floor of the cell.

Daryl felt her loosen her grip on his hand and he instinctively grabbed hold of it, bringing it closer to him. He held her hand against his chest for a moment before letting it go. Carol smiled warmly at him before standing up and walking slowly away from his bunk. Before leaving she turned to face him one more time, and leaned against the entrance to the cell.

"Promise me you'll get some sleep?

Carol thought he might have fallen asleep sitting up, but then he moved his head slowly up and down in a somewhat discernible nod.

"Good."

"Carol?" His voice was stronger than she had expected it to be. She stopped and turned once more to face him.

"You're always with me, too."

She smiled at him and strummed her fingers against the bars of the cell.

"I know," she said in a hushed voice, "and I feel the same way."

**A/N: Well, my goal had been to finish this before the season finale started... I'm only 15 minutes late! And I've got it on PVR right now so I like to think that what I've writing could still have been possible at the moment it was published...**

**Anyway, I think that's it for this story... Hope you all enjoyed and thanks for all the great reviews!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Right, so if you read my note at the end of the last chapter you will know that I wasn't really planning on continuing this story... But then a few things happened: 1) Carol and Daryl didn't get a huge reunion scene (and so mine could technically still be canon, woohoo!), 2) they both survived, and 3) I realized that October is six months away.**

**That being said, here is chapter 4 for your reading pleasure!**

xxxx

_Oh the blood and the treasure and the losing it all_

_The time that we wasted and the place where we fall_

_Will we wake in the morning and know what it was for_

_Up in our bedroom after the war?_

- Stars, "The Beginning After the End"

The sound of the single gunshot echoed off the chamber walls, propelled by the sheet metal and forcing its way through the door to where Rick, Tyreese and Daryl waited. There was no denying the coldness of the place; the Governor's makeshift laboratory made the prison seem cozy and inviting by comparison. The emptiness of the hallway only amplified the finality of Andrea's last act. Daryl had seen the body of the walker sprawled in front of the old dentist chair, and had recognized it immediately to be that of Milton, the Governor's so-called advisor. He wondered what sort of advice the poor bastard had given his leader to merit both death and reanimation. Daryl knew all too well that it was a fate the Governor reserved only for his most deserving betrayers.

In that moment he couldn't help but admire Andrea's strength. Much like his own brother, she had never wanted to be a victim. Still, their deaths couldn't have been more different. As a living, breathing human being, Merle's life had ended abruptly. He never had to suffer through the feeling and fever of a walker bite, but he'd been killed by the enemy and returned anyway. Andrea had been bitten by someone she had considered to be a friend, but would never return to destroy those she loved. Daryl couldn't decide which fate was worse. He shifted his position against the crate in the hallway. _What did it matter?_ The simple fact was that, in less than two days, two people he cared about were dead and the Governor was still alive. Daryl didn't know how long it would be before the man would inevitably reappear again, but that didn't matter either.

A scraping noise came from behind Daryl and he turned to see Michonne standing in the open doorway, one hand on the metal door and the other subconsciously rubbing her blood-stained pant leg. Daryl's gaze flickered from Michonne's leg to her face and he nodded in silent understanding. He knew what it was like to be covered in the blood of a loved one. Rick stepped forward and rested a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder. She didn't flinch away like Daryl had but she also didn't move to bring herself closer to him.

"Can we get something for her?" Rick asked.

Michonne nodded and looked down at the floor. Rick looked over to Tyreese, who quickly stood up and made his way outside in search of a blanket or a burlap sack. Their makeshift caskets weren't elegant or strong but their options were limited; burying loved ones had become an ordinary occurrence that required abundance over extravagance. Daryl felt his chest tighten as he remembered how he'd left Merle at the feedlot, exposed to the elements.

Within minutes Tyreese returned with a few yards of burlap and several pieces of twine. The three men worked together while Michonne leaned against the metal door, eyes closed and head bowed. She followed them as they carried Andrea outside and placed her on the ground. Daryl waited uncomfortably with Michonne while Rick brought the pickup truck closer to Woodbury's gates. With muscles that still ached from the previous day's events, Daryl gently placed Andrea's feet onto the bed of the truck. Rick did the same with her upper body, and the two men waited for Tyreese to return from fetching Sasha and Karen, who had been keeping watch on the south wall.

Daryl sat on the tailgate of the pickup and quietly swung his legs back and forth. No matter what he did he couldn't shake the feeling that he should have brought Merle back with him. He had been weak and exhausted; his arms had barely been able to hold a knife by the time he'd arrived at the prison. He knew he wouldn't have made it back with Merle's dead weight dragging him down and he hated himself for having been so weak. He turned to look at Michonne, already seated in the passenger side of the pickup truck. Daryl didn't think she knew how lucky she was to have seen Andrea for one last time before it all ended. A queasy feeling started to build in his stomach as he tried to determine what was causing his sickness: his jealousy of a woman who had just lost her best friend, or the fact that the lucky people in their world weren't those whose loved ones survived, but rather those who were present when their loved ones left them. He swallowed the bile that was starting to rise in his throat and looked back down at his legs, still swinging freely from the back of the truck. The sound of footfalls made Daryl look up as he saw the three figures approaching from a distance.

Rick pushed himself off from the side of the truck and went to meet with the three of them several yards away from where Daryl sat. Daryl glanced over at Michonne. She seemed unaware that the others had returned. He wanted to stay where he was, too, but this wasn't his time to mourn anymore. That, like his brother, had been ripped away from him unceremoniously, only to leave him feeling a deeper sense of loss. _Andrea was gone now, too_.

Gripping the edge of the tailgate, he heaved himself up off the back of the truck and moved to join the others in their discussion.

"... They only know what we've told them, which isn't much," Sasha was saying, "I wouldn't feel comfortable abandoning them." She looked to her brother who observed her intently.

"And we don't feel safe staying here either," Tyreese continued. "Of course, we could never impose ourselves on you or your people," he added quickly, remembering what had happened the last time his group had been at the prison.

Rick paused to consider Tyreese's words. Andrea had tried and they needed to do the same; she deserved that. "It's not an imposition if we ask you to join us," he looked around at the other four, his sights finally settling on Daryl.

Daryl shifted uncomfortably in place when he realized the others were looking at him for input. He'd grown used to being heard back at the prison, where he actually cared for the people who wanted his opinion. _But these strangers?_ He'd never even seen two of these people before arriving outside Woodbury; the third had jumped out at him from inside an abandoned jeep that had been surrounded by bodies, both dead and undead.

"We don't know them," he blurted out finally, running the strap of his crossbow between his fingers.

"We can't just _leave_ them here," the woman named Karen continued, "they've been living within these walls for months. They've always had armed men and women patrolling these gates and keeping them safe from walkers and intruders -" she froze, realizing what she'd said after it was too late.

Daryl narrowed his eyes at her but Rick remained unperturbed by the woman's slip-up.

"Don't worry," he looked at her reassuringly, "we're all in this together now. We don't blame you for thinking we were terrorists just like you won't blame us for thinking you all knew about everything your so-called leader had done prior to today." He looked around at Tyreese, Sasha and Karen as they each nodded slowly in agreement.

Daryl didn't look at the other three but instead turned his gaze onto Rick. The other man's eyes were searching, almost _pleading_ with Daryl to agree with him. Merle had been one of those men of whom Karen had spoken. It was something he'd never thought of before; in an odd way Merle had been protecting dozens of people, even though his paramount objective had been to protect himself. Daryl wanted to laugh at the unintentional consequences of his brother's actions, but felt his face flush when he realized that Rick was still looking at him. His first instinct was to shake his head in strict defiance and not allow any more strangers to join them. The three people standing before him were quite enough. But then he remembered what he'd told Rick only a day earlier, when the other man had told him they were going to give Michonne to the Governor. _It just ain't us_. Not allowing the Woodbury survivors to join them would be equivalent to allowing the Governor to enjoy more target practice before setting his sights back on the prison.

He pursed his lips and finally nodded in Rick's direction. "So how are we gonna bring 'em back, then?" He quickly glanced at their surroundings, trying to scope out any remaining vehicles through the darkness.

"There's a bus back near that open air space," Tyreese motioned in the direction of the arena where Daryl had first been reunited with his brother. Tyreese had never been in Woodbury to witness a fight; it was one of the many things about which he remained completely in the dark.

"Good," Rick said, before turning on his heel to head back towards the pickup truck. "Can you get it started? Swing around and pick everyone up -" he looked at Sasha and Karen "– can you go with him? We've just got a bit more to deal with over here." He motioned for Daryl to follow him before returning to the truck.

Rick glanced at Michonne before turning to Daryl and speaking to him in a low voice, "I know supplies are already tight at the prison, and I know it'll be an adjustment having all of these -"

Daryl held a hand up to interrupt Rick's train of thought. "It's what we gotta do, for our own good." His eyes skimmed over the body lying in the back of the truck. He cleared his throat, "for Andrea."

Rick's posture immediately relaxed and he held his hand out to Daryl, who took it in a firm grip for only a second before letting his own hand drop back to his side.

"Alright then. You'll get your bike and wait for us to join you?" When Daryl nodded in agreement, Rick turned and climbed into the driver's side of the pickup, where Daryl could hear his muffled voice telling Michonne their plan. As soon as the other man had left him, Daryl felt his stomach start to tighten again. He stole a final glance at the body on the tailgate before determinedly setting off through the gates and into the trees, where he knew his brother's bike would be waiting for him in the nearby clearing.

As he walked he took deep breaths, trying to release the anger he felt towards himself for not bringing his brother's body back to the prison. The rational corner of his subconscious kept tapping at his overall mindset, reminding him that it would have been physically impossible for a single man to drag such a weight over a long distance, all the while keeping an eye out for walkers and other humans. By the time he reached the bike realization had dawned on him; he'd been unable to bring his brother back because he'd been alone. _Alone_. That last word ran through Daryl's mind over and over again as he sat on the bike, eyes scanning the dark trees and fingers gripping his crossbow.

Before Merle's death, Daryl had believed that, at one point in time, it was possible to survive alone in the apocalypse. He had wanted Merle to fight with the group because that, he thought, was all Merle needed to do to survive. In this world where the living fought the living, Merle just needed pick a side. Daryl still believed that they lived in a world where one's loyalties needed to be proven and trusted, but following his brother's death he saw things a little differently. Before other humans became the enemy; before anyone needed to pick a side and fight – before there even _were_ sides to pick – there was just with or without; alone or not. All this time, he realized, humans needed each other's company. Daryl had seen the mutual benefits and the importance of belonging to a group and deliberately or not, Merle had realized it too. Even Merle, the self-proclaimed lone wolf, had been unable to escape the responsibility of aiding others. He'd found ways of helping people he hadn't intended to help. Even if he had been thinking only of Daryl during his last day on earth, his actions had benefited the entire group.

Daryl heard the distant rumble of vehicles approaching and saw headlights flickering through the trees. He kicked the stand on his bike – for it was truly _his_ bike now – and pushed off, leading the convoy back to the prison and back to the group – _his_ group.

The sun had risen by the time they reached the prison gates. Daryl wondered what the others would think now that their group's numbers were tripling. Their intentions were good, but if Daryl had learned anything during the past two days it was that intentions hardly mattered anymore. Andrea had had the best intentions out of all of them. It hadn't made a difference.

xxxx

True to their word, Glenn and Maggie stayed outside after Rick, Daryl and Michonne left to take the fight back to Woodbury. They'd stayed there overnight, and Carol wasn't surprised when, the next morning, she had to bring them their baked beans so that they wouldn't have to leave their post. She returned indoors and sat on the steps in the cell block's common area, watching Beth prepare Judith's formula.

After leaving Daryl's cell the previous night she had returned to her own cell and lain in bed, staring at the underside of the bunk above her head. Her hands had still been warm; the warmest they had been since an autumn chill had swept over the state of Georgia. She'd closed her eyes and remembered how Daryl's breathing had fallen into time with her own; how he'd remained close to her for longer than he ever had before. She'd hoped she'd been able to comfort him enough to allow him to fall asleep; it was a state of mind that would provide him with a deserved reprieve from the utter loss he was feeling.

She'd fallen asleep quickly after that and woken up to find that he was already outside, seated beside his motorcycle. She approached him silently, but he knew she was there. She didn't want to pry but she couldn't ignore him either. She'd spent the previous evening being there for Daryl; there hadn't been a need to discuss the repercussions of what Merle had done. That morning, however, Daryl was the one to willingly bring it up, and she had told him the simple truth: Merle had given them a chance. They'd accepted it with pleasure and succeeded better than anyone had expected.

Carol had been somewhat surprised at how easily Woodbury had given up; she herself had doubted whether it was worth it, this war and this loss of life. She wondered how many of Woodbury's residents truly believed in the cause. She knew of one who didn't: Andrea. Carol thought back to those last moments on the farm, when she thought Andrea had been lost to the walkers. She could just as easily have been the one separated from the rest of the group. She couldn't help but wonder how differently things might have turned out if that had been the case. _Would Michonne have found her, too?_ Carol thought it unlikely; she would have died right there on the farm for she had been unable to fend off multiple walkers like Andrea had done on more than one occasion.

The more she thought of Andrea, the more she wondered where the other woman was. Andrea had been the only person to try to broker peace between the two groups, and so Carol hadn't been surprised when Andrea's slim figure wasn't among those retreating from the prison the previous day. She thought – or rather, she _hoped_ – that the other woman had managed to escape on foot prior to the attack. Andrea was a fighter, and always had been, whereas it had taken Carol years to grow into someone worthy of being alive in the present day. Merle had been right; she was a late bloomer. She couldn't help but smile to herself at Merle's wisdom. He and his brother were more observant than people ever gave them credit for.

She watched as Hershel gently rocked Judith back and forth in the crook of his arm. _If only both Grimes children could be so innocent_. Carl had disappeared from the cellblock as soon as the sun had risen, but Carol wasn't worried. He had become an incredibly - almost _frighteningly_ - capable young adult, and she wondered if Sophia would ever have grown to become someone like Carl. Before she could drift off on another wave of nostalgia she heard the sound of vehicles outside the prison. She said a silent prayer to herself as her ears strained to separate the harsh rumble of the motorcycle's engine from that of a pickup truck.

She and Beth were the first to arrive outside, blinded by a harsh daylight that never fully illuminated the prison's interior. Daryl had been the first to pull up, and she felt the sun's warmth stretch to her extremities as he stepped off the bike. She looked over to the pickup truck and squinted to make out the figures of Rick and Michonne sitting in the front seats. She hardly noticed the old school bus trundling into the yard as her gaze drifted towards the bed of the truck, where a narrow body was carefully wrapped in burlap like a gift for the afterlife.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: A quick note... I know that last chapter was kind of... disjointed from the previous three (at least, I felt it was upon re-reading all chapters together), and it focused on many things ****_aside_**** from Daryl and Carol's relationship but I wanted to keep it in canon (i.e. and deal with the events in the finale) before moving on with the story. That being said, chapter 4 was basically me trying to figure out how Daryl might deal with Andrea's death while still grieving for his brother and I thought it was important (if you've made it this far hopefully you've realized that I'm a fan of character development :D )... Anywho, hope this next one tickles your fancy, I quite enjoyed writing it and it is hopefully less depressing than the previous four chapters. Read away! (and let me know what you think - Thank you for the great reviews so far!)**

_Did I say that I need you?_

_Did I say that I want you?_

_If I didn't I'm a fool, you see_

_No one knows this more than me_

- Pearl Jam, "Just Breathe"

"I know that in the past, we have looked to the good book in a time of mourning. We found that the Lord had ways of saying things we never could. Maybe it's because we really didn't know what to say. Maybe we just never tried hard enough." Hershel had closed his bible and held it by his side, trapping it between his palm and his crutch. He looked around at the others who had joined him silently in the prison yard. "I don't believe the good book was prepared to handle death as we've come to know it," he continued, "and I don't know if it could ever have the right words to express how we feel. So now is the time for us to look to each other, even if we don't have anything to say at all."

Carol blinked quickly as the tears that had been threatening to spill over finally found their way down her face and neck. Her gaze wandered around the circle of people who had come outside to put Andrea to rest. Hershel stood beside the freshly-dug earth, scanning their faces much like Carol was doing. Beth watched her father as he spoke, occasionally wiping her nose with the sleeve of her jacket. Beside her, Carl stood, motionless. Carol could tell that he was trying to put on a tough face but the single tear sliding down his cheek betrayed him. On her other side Glenn and Maggie held hands, Maggie resting her head on Glenn's shoulder. Carol knew that Maggie's relationship with Andrea had been rocky, but the young woman's swollen eyes spoke of sadness and regret more than indifference. Rick and Michonne stood on the other side of the grave, both sets of eyes focused on the dirt in front of them rather than the man who spoke to them. Carol's heart broke when she looked at Michonne; the fiercely independent survivor wasn't even trying to hold back the tears that streamed down her face.

Carol looked beyond Michonne to the mounds of dirt that had been dug up in the weeks since they'd found the prison. The three other patches of soil had begun sprouting weeds. T-Dog and Lori's graves were still marked by crooked crosses but her own grave was unmarked. They had had no way of covering its surface with sod or grass seed but somebody had taken the time to remove the cross and she was glad for it; Carol didn't belong to God just yet.

She'd escaped death so many times already that she wondered when her luck was going to run out. She blinked hard and tried to remind herself that she wasn't lucky to have survived, but rather lucky to have found people who always looked out for each other. Still, she couldn't shake the memories of the farm and the vision of the walkers falling onto Andrea, pinning her beneath their dead weight. She owed her life to the woman who had taken her place in the ground alongside Lori and T-Dog. Years of living with Ed had made it easy for Carol to feel guilty, but she tried her best to push those feelings aside. There was nothing she could do to bring Andrea back, and she reminded herself that, when the dead were constantly watching them through the fence, survivor's guilt could be a death sentence.

Still staring at the grave, Carol noticed a detail she'd never seen before. A small circle of stones were carefully laid out above where her heart would have been. In the center of the stones were the brown, curled petals of what Carol assumed had once been a flower. She frowned slightly, and suddenly felt another pair of eyes on her. She drew in a deep breath and looked to the opposite side of the circle where Daryl was watching her intently.

Rather than look away when she made eye contact, however, he locked his gaze in on hers. He, too, had been scanning the faces of the others in the circle. When his sights had landed on Carol she was already looking at something beyond Michonne. He knew she'd been down to visit the graves once before because he'd overheard her discussing it with Beth one night, and had mentioned how it made her uncomfortable. He'd taken his turn on watch later that evening and sprinted through the walker-filled yard to pull up the wooden slat that marked her grave.

_It was supposed to be yours_, he thought as he watched her. He swallowed hard and tried to forget about that evening at dusk, when he'd knelt in the yard and placed the Cherokee rose atop the mound of soil. _It could have been you and not Axel. It could have been you and not Andrea._

From across the circle Carol gave him a small smile. She'd seen the pain in his eyes as he looked at her and she was certain he was thinking about Merle, who'd been left lying in the field miles from the prison. She wanted him to know that, regardless of what the others were thinking, she hadn't forgotten about his brother.

Daryl returned her smile with a small nod. _I could have found a walker in the tombs_. _But I found you instead._

"We carry her with us like we carry them all," Hershel continued with a note of finality, "but we carry on." He stopped to scan the crowd once more. "If anyone else has something to say, please do."

When nobody spoke after a few moments, Carl turned to walk back up to the prison. Glenn and Maggie followed him shortly after, and Beth reached out to her father to help him back through the yard. Carol watched as Rick put a comforting hand on Michonne's shoulder and she smiled feebly at him as a sign of gratitude. Then he, too, left the circle and retreated to the main gate, where they had piled several rows of barbed wire on top of each other to keep the walkers out of the yard during the memorial. Carol saw Tyreese coming down from the interior yard to help Rick and she looked back to Daryl, who, like her, remained graveside.

She caught his eye and together they left, leaving Michonne to say her final goodbyes to Andrea. They walked in silence for a few paces and Carol watched him out of the corner of her eye. She could see that he was still deep in thought, although his concerned expression had lessened somewhat.

"We could still do something like this for Merle, you know," she said at last. He didn't respond immediately but his expression changed when she spoke. She expected him to become more tense, but instead her words seemed to pull him in the opposite direction from whatever he had been contemplating.

Carol's comment surprised him more than anything, for in truth, he hadn't been thinking at all about his own brother. In those quiet moments during the memorial he had finally allowed himself to think entirely of something – or, rather, someone – else. It was true that he'd thought about his brother as he helped Michonne dig Andrea's grave, but he'd realized that Merle wouldn't have wanted what they were giving Andrea. Merle wasn't a sentimental guy. He wouldn't have liked seeing a bunch of people crying over some pile of dirt that covered what was left of his rotting body.

"That's why you stayed, isn't it?" She was watching him closely now.

Daryl opened his mouth to speak before realizing that he had no idea what to say to her. Carol thought he had remained by the graves with her and Michonne because he was also mourning his brother. He could feel his ears burning and suddenly felt extremely aware of how his arms swung awkwardly back and forth as he walked. He was sure she had spent most of the memorial thinking about her own survival, and he'd found himself frozen in place, unable to look away from her until she'd indicated that she wanted to head back up to their cellblock.

When they reached the inner yard he stopped at the base of the stairs and shrugged. "Merle wouldn't want somethin' like this." He adjusted his crossbow over his shoulder. "Too sombre."

Carol nodded in understanding, and watched as Daryl's gaze travelled past her into the distance.

"Maybe too sober, too" he added, before looking back to Carol.

She smiled, but her eyes were still filled with sadness. Nothing could get past her, and although he had tried to cheer her up she had an uncanny ability to see right through him. She knew that he still wanted some form of closure, even if he didn't want to place Merle's body in the ground alongside Andrea's.

He could feel his ears heating up again and looked down at the ground. "Yeah," he admitted, "we could still do something for him."

"Whatever it is, I'll be there," she said to him reassuringly before turning and disappearing into the prison to join the others.

Daryl watched her go, certain that her words were more than a simple RSVP to whatever it was he was going to do for his brother.

xxxx

The first few hours in the cellblock were spent in polite but awkward conversation. Carol could see Glenn and Maggie speaking to an older woman who clearly had taken a liking to Glenn. She smiled as Glenn nervously glanced from Maggie back to the woman. Maggie, on the other hand, was thoroughly enjoying the conversation unfolding between her fiancé and his new, older girlfriend.

Looking towards the stairs that led to the upper row of cells, Carol could see Rick in deep conversation with Sasha and Karen. The women were gesturing to the people around them and craning their necks to get a better look at the cells in the block. Rick seemed to be considering their words very seriously and every so often he'd nod or point in the direction of a particular cell.

She turned back to face the common area and saw that Daryl had reappeared, sitting near the top of the steps and silently watching the strangers that surrounded him. She felt an urge to go join him on the steps but Rick called out to her, motioning for her to get the others and join him, Karen and Sasha.

Within a few moments, everyone – at least, everyone Carol had known for more than twenty-four hours – had gathered at the bottom of the steps to listen to what Rick had to say.

"I've been speaking with Karen and Sasha here," he nodded towards the two women, "and decided we should figure out sleeping arrangements sooner rather than later." He stopped and scanned the bottom row of cells. "I think we need to vacate as many cells as we can, especially the ones on the first level. Some of these newcomers aren't the most –er – _mobile_ of people so I think us able-bodied folk should move to the second level."

Carol looked around to the others; all except Carl nodded in agreement with Rick.

"And if we can, we need to be efficient with our space." He looked back to Karen and Sasha. "This goes for all of your people, too. If they can climb a ladder they need to double up. We only have so many cells in this block." Rick opened his mouth to speak again but paused, remembering the speech he'd given the group only a few days ago. "Does this sound OK to everybody?" He looked to Carl but the boy simply stared stone-faced into the distance, as if his father hadn't spoken at all.

When nobody objected, the group dispersed. Carol immediately went to her cell and picked up her knapsack – she hadn't even unpacked it yet. She carried it up the stairs and down the row of cells, but hesitated when she reached the entrance to Daryl's cell. She considered stepping through the doorway and tossing her bag onto the top bunk but thought better of it; she didn't have to right to invade his space without asking and she knew he probably still considered that bunk to be Merle's.

She quickly continued on her way to the end of the row, where she found a cell that had never been occupied by anyone in their group. She tossed her bag into a corner and sat down on the bottom bunk. _This will do just fine_, she thought. She was responsible for keeping Judith's crib in her cell every third night – the other two were split between Rick and Carl's cell and Hershel and Beth's – so it was just as well that she was alone at the end of the row. Judith wouldn't disturb as many people that way.

As soon as Rick had finished advising them of their new sleeping arrangements, Daryl darted off to his bike to retrieve his things. He didn't have many personal items, but he found his poncho and carried it back inside.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor perch and threw the poncho over the railing. He'd slept out there before and he would do it again. There was no need for him to take up a whole cell when there were other people now who had probably been sleeping in luxury since the whole thing started. Daryl could have found a king-sized mattress to sleep on but he would still never really fall into a deep sleep. He looked to the cells and saw Carol coming out of the last cell in the row. It was just as well. The floor suited him perfectly fine.

xxxx

Darkness had fallen on the prison by the time Daryl took watch later that night. The air was calm and only the gargles and moans of walkers in the yard disturbed his otherwise peaceful shift. He heard a door open and seconds later Rick stood beside him on the walkway. They gave each other a nod of acknowledgement and Daryl returned his sights onto the distant trees. Rick gripped the chain links of the walkway's fence and slowly rocked back and forth in his boots.

"The old ladies chattin' you up in there?" Daryl kept his eyes keenly focused on the forest, but was acutely aware of Rick's continued presence.

Rick smiled slightly and shook his head, kicking the metal tabletop that was propped up against the fencing. "I wish." He paused and ran a hand through his hair. "It's Carl."

Daryl shot a quick glance at Rick. He had noticed tension between the two ever since he'd returned to the prison with Merle, but that had quickly escalated to outright hostility when Carl learned that Rick wasn't allowing him to stay in the prison during the Governor's attack. Rick's body language mimicked the stress Daryl knew he must have been feeling.

"He'll get over it. We needed someone to protect Lil' Asskicker, right?" Daryl looked back out onto the prison yard. He wasn't well-versed in how to give proper pep talks. "You gotta keep your kids safe. Both of them."

"Sometimes he forgets he's not an adult." Rick reached into his pocket, where his fingers closed around the sheriff's badge Carl had dropped the previous day. Even though it had been resting close to his leg, the metal felt like ice against his skin. "Sometimes I do, too."

Daryl nodded slowly. Even during the most casual of conversations he found that words could be hard to come by. He didn't know what else he could say to Rick. He didn't have a son and, for all intents and purposes, he'd never really had a father either – at least, he'd never had a father who did things such as show _concern_ for his children. It was impossible for him to put Rick in the same category as the father he'd known.

"So what, he's still giving you hang about it in there?"

Rick shook his head, "he says he's moving out of our cell. Said he wants to sleep on the perch."

Daryl raised his eyebrows, somewhat surprised that the boy preferred the open vulnerability of the perch to the enclosed security of sharing a cell with his father. He thought back to when Merle had told him why he'd moved out and left Daryl with his father. _I woulda killed him otherwise_. Daryl knew that Rick and Carl's relationship wasn't built on hatred like the one between his own father and Merle, but the kid was stubborn. He supposed that a bit of distance between the two of them could be for the better, and tried to ease Rick's mind as best he could.

"It's colder out there at night but I guess he'll get used to it."

"I'm not letting him do it," Rick said firmly.

Daryl lowered his gun to his side and turned again to look at the other man.

"It's just too... Exposed, you know?" Rick continued, "Anything could happen if he's sleeping out there, and he's all alone -"

"He's only alone when I'm on watch," Daryl interrupted. He felt slightly affronted that Rick didn't trust him to look after Carl, but at the same time wasn't keen on having to take on an extra responsibility even while he slept. "I mean, I ain't babysitting the kid but when I'm there..." He paused. "I'll make sure."

The stressed looked on Rick's face was slowly replaced by one of confusion as he furrowed his brow and asked, "You're sleeping on the perch?"

Daryl eyed Rick suspiciously. "You wanted us to free up some cells. Ain't that what I'm doin'?"

Rick exhaled and scratched his head, then continued, "I just thought you were sleeping with Carol, is all."

Daryl's grip on his gun slipped and he clumsily moved to catch it before it clattered to his feet. His palms suddenly felt sweaty as his pulse quickened. Rick realized too late that what he'd meant to say had not come out at all like he'd intended.

"I – I mean, I thought you two would share a cell," he stammered, "it just made sense... you know, you two are..." he trailed off, realizing he was only digging himself into a deeper hole of embarrassment.

Daryl narrowed his eyes at Rick, now completely abandoning his watch duties to focus on the man in front of him. He had regained his composure but his heart was still hammering in his chest. "Us two are what?"

Rick bit the inside of his cheek and carefully considered his choice of words before speaking again. "You're close."

Daryl's expression softened and he nodded slowly. Even though Rick's last words had made him feel relieved, a small part of him also felt a strange sort of disappointment. "We're all close," he said simply.

"We are," Rick agreed. He paused, and when Daryl turned to look back out into the yard he took it as a sign that he'd worn out his welcome. Before disappearing back into their cellblock he turned back to Daryl and called out, "so it's all right with you if Carl..."

Daryl nodded without looking at Rick again. He understood what the man was asking of him.

"Oh, and about before," he flicked his gaze over to Rick, who stood waiting in the doorway. "It's all right, man. I know what you meant." He looked back to the forest. "I just like my space."

Rick watched the other man as he scanned the distant trees. He was calm in his body language but Rick could tell that there were a million things still swirling through Daryl's mind.

"I know you do," he admitted, before turning to leave Daryl alone with his thoughts.

**A/N: I watched "Seed" for only the second time a few days ago and realized that Lori and Carol's cell was actually on the second floor whereas I wrote that Carol was on the first floor. For all you sticklers for details, you'll notice that I have conveniently moved Carol to the second floor in this chapter (I'll admit I also did this to satisfy my own need to be accurate). Hurray for artistic license!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hands up if you love awkward Daryl. Carry (or should I say Caryl?) on! Do leave a review if leaving reviews tickles your fancy. This accidentally became my longest chapter yet. Oops.**

xxxx

_Every house not a home, but dare do I roam_

_There's a light on the porch here for someone_

- Band of Horses, "Neighbor"

To his dismay, the boy was still awake when Daryl reached the perch at the end of his shift. Carl had set himself up opposite Daryl, so that his pillow rested a few inches away from Daryl's feet. As he kicked off his boots, Daryl was grateful that at least he wouldn't ever roll over in his sleep and find the kid's face inches from his own. He rolled up his poncho and settled down onto the thin blanket he'd grabbed from his old cell when no one was looking. The bunched-up garment felt itchy on the back of his neck but he closed his eyes and tried to ignore it. He had almost drifted off to sleep when Carl's voice cut through the silence in a whisper.

"Hey, Daryl?"

Daryl lay perfectly still and pretended to sleep, hoping to fool the boy into leaving him alone. It was a tactic he'd used on his father as a child; one that had failed more than it had succeeded.

The boy persisted, "you told me your mom died when you were a kid, right?"

Daryl nodded. He didn't know if Carl could see it in the moonlight.

"What about your dad? What was he like after she died?"

Daryl jerked his head up and glanced at Carl. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

"Same as he was before she died." _An asshole_, he thought to himself.

"When did he start treating you like an adult?"

Daryl frowned. Even in his earliest memories, his father had been telling him to man up. _Since birth, basically_.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, like when did he start treating your opinion the same as everyone else's? When were you old enough to do whatever you wanted?"

Daryl narrowed his eyes at Carl, who was still looking at the ceiling. He wasn't a huge fan of early morning therapy sessions. "My old man didn't listen to me. Not when I was a kid, not even when we were the only ones in the house. I did whatever I wanted whenever I wanted."

Carl tilted his head down to look at Daryl. "Must've been nice, doing what you wanted."

_Yeah,_ Daryl thought sarcastically, _the lashings were great too_. He was rapidly losing patience with the boy and rolled over onto his side so that Carl couldn't see his face.

He thought maybe his lack of response had deterred Carl from asking him anymore questions, but after a few minutes the boy whispered again, "Daryl?"

He grunted in response.

"Thanks for sleeping out here with me."

Daryl snorted and replied, "I was sleepin' out here anyway."

"Oh... I thought you were sharing a cell with Carol."

Daryl couldn't help but hear a tiny amount of disappointment in Carl's voice. _Jesus_, he thought, _did these people ever stop?_

"Nope, never was," he said curtly. He couldn't figure out what was making the kid so talkative at such an ungodly hour. Couldn't it all wait until the morning?

Carl propped himself up onto his elbows and continued, "I just thought that Glenn and Maggie share a cell, so it makes sense –"

Daryl's eyes flew wide open and he bolted upright, terrified that someone else was awake and eavesdropping on their conversation. "We ain't like them," he hissed.

Carl rolled his eyes at the man. "Well I know _that_," he said, as if it were obvious. "But Carol doesn't have anyone to share with, and it's not like a girl and a guy aren't allowed to share a cell or anything..."

Daryl flopped back onto his blanket. The metal under his body suddenly felt a lot harder than it had before. He could feel his heart beating wildly against his ribcage.

"Fine then," Carl added, his speech slurring, "Tyreese and Sasha share a cell, too."

Daryl looked over his shoulder at the boy, who had closed his eyes and brought his hands to rest on his stomach. He felt oddly vulnerable, as if Carl had suddenly moved into his personal space. Daryl reached an arm across his own back and tugged at his blanket, pulling it so it covered his shoulders. Carl's breathing finally slowed into a deep, steady rhythm and Daryl let out a sigh of relief. He peered through the semi-darkness to the end of the row, where Carol's cell door rested, slightly ajar.

He'd walked by her cell after an overnight shift once and stolen a glance at her sleeping figure, curled up on the bottom bunk with her back against the wall. She had looked peaceful in sleep; content, almost. He'd felt certain that her nights were dreamless, for he knew of what she'd suffered and couldn't imagine those memories leaving her, even in an unconscious state. He would have stayed there, watching her and sharing in her peacefulness had Merle not been eyeing him from above, silently forcing him to retreat to the cell he'd shared with his brother. Lying on the ground, with Carl only a few feet away from him, Daryl hoped that Carol was still enjoying the serenity of her sleep.

"We ain't like them, neither," he muttered, before his thoughts finally slipped away into merciful darkness.

xxxx

For Carol, the next day passed by quicker than she had thought possible. Before they'd taken in the Woodbury survivors, she'd spent her days working at a busy but steady pace. Between her, Beth and Hershel, caring for Judith was easily managed alongside cooking and the occasional shift on watch. But with the sudden influx of newcomers, she found herself acting as the prison's unofficial tour guide and customer service representative. Rick was often out on a run or strategizing with Hershel or Daryl, and Hershel's time was most easily spent sitting down. As a result, Carol was the most visible and approachable member of the original prison group. She liked that people were looking to her for information or assistance, and on the whole the people of Woodbury seemed to appreciate the time she took to make them feel welcome; some, however, were less grateful than others.

While cleaning up after dinner, Carol noticed that one of the older women had drifted off to sleep while still sitting at the table. Carol approached the lady and placed her hand near the woman's upper back to prevent her from toppling over.

"Ms. Johnson?" She spoke softly so as to not startle the woman.

The woman's eyes flew open and she whirled around to face Carol, a look of horror on her face. She reached out and grabbed Carol's arm with a strength that Carol would have never imagined a woman of her age could possess.

"What do you think you're doing?" She spat, narrowing her eyes with a fierce intensity that surprised Carol but didn't scare her. "You think your people can just _take_ us and _keep_ us here? Without _asking _us?"

Carol blinked but didn't move away. Mrs. Johnson was the typical picture of an old lady with her faded purple housecoat and wispy white hair. Her bitterness stung Carol only momentarily; she was an outlier in a group of people who had otherwise been thankful to have been brought to the prison.

"It's time to get to bed," she said evenly, "Let me help you." Carol stared back with equal fierceness but spoke with calmness.

The older woman, seeing that Carol wasn't backing down, could only narrow her eyes at her and begrudgingly stand up, knees and ankles cracking as she did so.

Sasha watched Carol as she finally succeeded at getting Mrs Johnson on her feet. The two women shuffled past her, and Carol returned a minute later as if getting yelled at was a part of her daily routine. Sasha approached the other woman, who had positioned herself in front of a basin of water that sat on the metal countertop.

"You're so good with them."

Carol smiled and went back to scrubbing out the empty cans from dinner.

"Did you work with them a lot?" Sasha asked, "I mean, before all this."

Carol blushed at the woman's compliment. She considered giving Sasha a vague 'yes' as her response, but the other woman seemed genuinely interested in Carol's past.

"My husband's parents were very ill for quite some time," she explained, "and we couldn't afford caregivers."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Carol put down the can she had been holding and rubbed her hands together to warm them up. She'd been scrubbing the cans in a basin filled with cold water.

"Thank you," she replied, and picked up another can to resume her cleaning.

"Is your husband...?" Sasha looked around the room at the other men who were still hanging about.

"No," Carol said quickly. A vision of Ed brooding in a dark corner of the cellblock flashed through her mind and she shuddered at the thought. As much as she'd lost, she hated to imagine what her life would have been like had her husband still been alive.

Sasha nodded and instinctively looked down at the counter. "I'm sorry about that too."

"Please don't be," Carol replied honestly. "Some men aren't worthy of our grief." She paused and blew into her hands in a vain attempt to warm them up. "Could you pass those down?" She motioned towards the pile of cans sitting further down the countertop.

Sasha had been eyeing Carol warily, and jumped when she realized the woman had asked her a question.

"Yes! Sorry – of course." She handed the cans over to Carol, whose fingers were slowly losing their dexterity with each can scrubbed. "Look at me, just standing here, talking, while you're working so hard. Here, let me help." She stretched her empty hand towards Carol, who shook her head fiercely.

"You're still getting settled in and I'm almost done here." Carol turned to the woman and smiled. "I'll give you a day off before I put you to work."

Sasha laughed and crossed her arms. She had already come to admire the woman's toughness. "Alright then." She looked around the common area as people slowly drifted off to their cells to turn in for the night. "Tell me about your group."

Carol chuckled and set aside another can. "I could write a novel about what we've been through."

Undeterred, Sasha sauntered over to one of the tables and sat on its top, resting her feet on the bench. "Give me the basics then. We were here for less than a day last time. Didn't really get the whole story."

Carol turned to face the other woman and leaned against the metal countertop. Her mind flooded with memories of the quarry camp and the farm. Faces flashed before her eyes in quick succession: Amy, Jacqui, Dale, T-Dog, Lori. She inhaled deeply and released a slow, calming breath. _Sophia_. She took a few more deep breaths before proceeding, not wanting to unload their losses onto an unsuspecting Sasha.

"We had a campsite at a quarry just outside of Atlanta. It got overrun. We lost some people." She didn't feel that Ed deserved a special mention. "We found Hershel's farm and stayed there 'til a herd passed through. We were nomads until we found this cozy place." She waved her arm gracefully around the room and Sasha laughed.

"So you've all known each other since the early days?"

Carol cleared her throat and continued, "everyone but Hershel, his daughters and Michonne."

She had started telling Sasha about Glenn and Maggie's relationship when the door to the prison yard burst open and Daryl appeared at the top of the stairs, a bulging backpack slung over one shoulder and his crossbow slung over the other. His eyes darted back and forth between Carol and Sasha, fully aware that they'd been talking before he'd opened the door.

"Am I interrupting somethin'?"

Carol shook her head. "No, no," she reassured him, "just having a little chat."

He nodded slowly and hovered awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of whether he should drop the food off with the two women or wait until they'd left before returning to unpack it himself. The usually-busy common room had emptied out, leaving only Daryl to be the tongue-tied third wheel in their halted conversation.

Carol gave Daryl a reassuring smile, knowing that he was generally unwilling to join in conversations that had started without him – especially when these involved people he barely knew. Her gesture seemed to spring him into action and he gave the two women a curt nod before galloping down the stairs and brushing past them into the cellblock. Carol's eyes followed him as he left, and when she turned to look back to Sasha she found the other woman frowning slightly, an inquisitive look in her eyes.

"What about him?" she asked.

"Daryl? What _about_ him?" Carol felt the sudden urge to busy herself with chores and crossed the room to pick up an empty milk crate, which she deposited on the counter alongside the clean cans.

"We only met him two nights ago, in Woodbury. He's been with you since the beginning, too?"

Carol paused, her hand hovering in midair over one of the cans. Explaining the complexities of the Dixon brothers' relationship to a relative newcomer made her feel like she would be betraying Daryl. What could she say in simple terms that wouldn't make him seem disloyal to the group for leaving them?

"He was out with his brother when you were here before."

Sasha cocked her head to the side. "Which one is his brother?"

Carol closed her eyes, remembering the exhausted man who'd finally come inside after pacing the yard for over an hour. The memories were so freshly engraved in her mind that it still pained her to think of them.

"His brother went out to do some damage to the Governor," she simplified, "and he didn't make it back."

She picked up the cans quicker now, increasingly desperate to change the topic.

Sasha's eyes grew wide as she finally connected the late Dixon brother to the Governor's final speech before the prison attack. She suddenly felt uncomfortable in Carol's presence and stood up to leave Carol to her chores, mumbling an embarrassed "Have a good night" to the other woman before making a beeline for her own cell.

xxxx

When Daryl went back to the common area a few minutes later he found it deserted save for Carol, who was stacking clean cans into an old milk crate. She didn't notice him right away, so he watched her work in silence for a few moments before clearing his throat to announce his presence.

"How was it today?" She asked without looking at him.

He shrugged and dropped the bag full of tins onto the counter, then sat down on top of the table closest to her. "Had to go farther out, apparently the geeks like the last place we found, too."

She hummed sympathetically and tucked the last empty can into the crate. Daryl watched her as she pushed the full crate under the counter with her foot and tucked her fingers into the waistband of her pants.

"How's it been here?"

Carol shrugged and joined him at the table. She pressed her palms together and held them between her legs, trying desperately to bring some warmth back to her fingertips. "Busier than normal I guess." She nodded towards the full milk crate sitting on the floor. "I feel like I've been scrubbing cans for days."

Daryl looked from Carol to the basin full of frigid water that still sat on the counter.

"You cleaned all those yourself?" He hoped she couldn't hear the slight bit of anger that was creeping into his voice.

She smiled and replied, "Sasha volunteered to help out but I still feel like she's a guest here."

Daryl shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "If you keep worryin' about other people you won't sleep for days." He looked over at her, only to see that she'd gone back to staring at her hands, still tucked between her knees.

"I've done it before," she admitted quietly, and Daryl felt his cheeks flush. He looked down at his own hands and wished he could take back what he'd just said. _Of course she had_. He hadn't been able to forget that night on the highway, when she'd quietly sobbed in the back room of Dale's RV. He'd spent every night after that in his tent, but he was sure her nights in the RV were just as sleepless as the first one.

He sat beside her in silence, trying to string words together in his head that wouldn't sound stupid or pitying. The silence between them carried onwards and he knew that she was still thinking about her daughter. Without thinking he reached his arm out to her, offering her his warm hand. She glanced down at his hand but didn't take it, a look of confusion etched across her face. He felt like an idiot, sitting there mutely with his arm stretched out towards her.

"C'mon, before I change my mind."

Carol raised her eyebrows at him and a small, crooked smile slowly crept across her face. Daryl could feel that familiar sense of panic rising in him with every second she didn't place her hand in his. Finally, when he thought he couldn't bare it any longer, she reached out and gently rested her fingers on his palm. Her hand felt like ice.

"Jesus," he muttered under his breath. He was surprised she'd been able to move her fingers at all.

Carol closed her eyes as he brought his other hand to rest on top of hers. Her hand had come so close to being totally numb that the sudden heat felt like fire on her skin. She winced at the pain bursting through her hand but resisted the urge to pull it away; she knew that this was Daryl's way of apologizing to her and she needed him to know that he was forgiven.

She watched in silence as he turned her hand over, adjusting his grip to cover as much of it as possible. His face was tense but focused; eyebrows knitted closely together and tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. She'd always admired his single-minded resolve; his ability to turn any favour asked of him into a selfless duty. The way he studied every inch of her hand reminded her of a palm reader and she bit her lip to suppress the smile that was threatening to form on her lips.

Daryl saw her bite her bottom lip and loosened what he realized had been a vice-like grip on her hand. He could feel his own palms starting to sweat despite the fact that they were rapidly losing heat. He let go of her hand before she could notice and rubbed his palms vigorously on his pants.

Carol watched him swallow nervously before indicating that he wanted her to give him her other hand. She smiled to herself at the man's resolve, knowing how unpleasant her frigid hands must have felt in his.

"I can't keep up," he confessed. "You sure you ain't cold-blooded?"

He looked up at her, relieved to see that he had managed to put a genuine smile on her face. She turned her head to look at Daryl straight on.

"I'm sure."

He returned her smile with one of his own but faltered when his sights connected with the clear blue of her eyes. He was suddenly very conscious of how close she was sitting to him; he could smell the cheap dish soap she'd been using earlier and feel the pulse beating in her wrist.

The sound of a cell door crashing into its frame almost made Daryl jump out of his skin and he practically threw her hand away as if it were made of hot coals. He was thankful that she had jumped too, because she probably didn't notice that he'd let go of her hand so quickly.

When silence fell on the two of them once more, Carol had to bite her tongue to keep herself from making a cheeky comment about Daryl sacrificing his own body heat to keep her warm. This wasn't the two of them on top of the bus, enjoying a lighter moment after a hard day's work; this was his way of making amends for something he'd said, even though Carol knew it pained him to think of Sophia almost as much as it pained her.

Daryl leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his fingers along his unshaven face. Even though he'd hardly moved an inch, he felt like if he stretched his arm out to take her hand again his fingertips wouldn't even brush against her shoulder. Before he could work out what to do next, he heard Carol chuckling to herself and turned to see why she was so amused. Her eyes held a look of quiet disbelief as she stretched her arms out in front of her, wiggling her fingers.

"I could play a minuet with these bad boys," she laughed, watching her own hands dance elegantly in midair.

She glanced at Daryl out of the corner of her eye and saw that the intensity in his eyes had faded into mild amusement. She raised her eyebrows at him playfully until the smirk he wore gradually grew into an authentic smile. Seeing his expression, Carol couldn't help but feel the warmth from her hands spread to the rest of her body; it was a look she hadn't seen since Merle died.

Daryl ducked his head and laughed with her, then pushed himself up off the tabletop and onto his feet. The knapsack full of non-perishables was still waiting to be unpacked and he felt it was his duty to finish a job that he'd essentially started by throwing the bag onto the counter in the first place.

"Gotta put these away," he declared, before they could be surrounded by another spate of quiet.

"I'll watch," she said simply, resting her chin in her hands.

Daryl paused and hung his head. He could always count on Carol to ignore his thinly veiled attempts to be alone.

"What?" She sat up, holding her hands up and feigning a look of shock. "You were watching me before; it's only fair I can watch too."

He whipped his head around and scowled at her but she just sat there with a smug look on her face. He shook his head and turned back to his knapsack. Maybe one day he'd be able to catch a break.

**A/N: So I watched "Killer Within" before writing the last part of this chapter... I guess you could say I wrote it as a form of therapy to bring my happy feelings back. Thank you again for reading and let me know what you think!**


	7. Chapter 7

_Nothing worth having c__omes without some kind of fight_

_Gotta kick at the darkness __'til it bleeds daylight_

- Bruce Cockburn, "Lovers in a Dangerous Time"

xxxx

Carol slept in the following morning. Even before she'd learned to use a rifle, or started washing her clothes in a bucket, she'd been an early riser. She knew she'd worked hard the previous day but still felt guilty about her extended slumber. She hurried down the stairs to find the group, including Tyreese and Karen, already gathered in a corner of the common area for the post-breakfast planning meeting.

They had become a routine occurrence, these morning meetings. At first Carol had found them to be forced and awkward, like the one support group meeting she'd gone to before Ed found out. But she quickly grew to enjoy – and almost look forward to – meeting everyone in the mornings after breakfast. On the whole she'd welcomed the people from Woodbury with open arms, but she couldn't deny that she missed how it was before, when it was just them. She liked the normalcy and the simplicity of the morning discussions. They reminded her of breakfast on the Greene farm, when they'd sit around in camp chairs eating scrambled eggs and forget, if only for a moment, that the world had gone to shit. Sophia was missing during those times, so Carol was reminded of the awfulness of the world every second of every day. Still, she imagined that these moments in the prison were probably like what the others had enjoyed on the farm. But with the extra burden of having more mouths to feed and the constant, nagging uncertainty surrounding the Governor's next move, she hardly saw everyone in the same room anymore – or if she _did, _there were always so many other people around that Carol could hardly speak with them at all.

The gatherings were short and to the point. Rick would let everyone know what needed to be done on that day, and then he'd open the floor for others' opinions. Since most days simply involved going on runs or hunting, there were rarely any disagreements. Carol would listen only half-heartedly to Rick's words, knowing she was likely to spend her day inside accomplishing tasks that she'd always done without complaint. On this day, though, Karen chose to join in the conversation, and her participation piqued Carol's interest.

"Can we talk about what everyone else does here all day?" She spoke calmly, but with authority. Carol imagined she had been a businesswoman before it all began. "I mean, I understand that we need food and medication and other supplies to keep everyone safe and healthy. And I certainly don't want to sound ungrateful, but most of these people don't actually _do_ anything all day. There's nothing for them _to_ do." She frowned slightly and looked over to where some elderly women sat quietly at a table. "And it's dark in here. They were used to going outside whenever they wanted and enjoying the sunlight."

Carol could see the others in the circle growing restless with Karen. The shifted their weight uneasily from foot to foot, avoiding eye contact with the dark haired woman. She knew that Karen was only looking out for the well-being of her people but she made it seem like the prison was an inferior place to live compared to Woodbury. Carol had heard that Woodbury was idyllic and much more hospitable than the prison, but she knew why nobody else was speaking up. _The prison, as it is, is good enough for us._ It was hard to feel sympathy for the others.

"If they wanna go lawn bowlin' every day they might wanna find someplace else to stay."

The comment drew a few murmurs from the group and Carol whirled around to see Daryl, as usual, standing on the outskirts of the circle. She imagined the look of shock that was probably plastered across her face as she stared at him. He'd never blurted out a retort like that in a meeting before. Judging by the look on his face, though, his words hadn't intended to insult. She saw a familiar wildness in his eyes that resurfaced whenever he got defensive, and she tried to hide the smile that threatened to break through her lips. It was the first time she'd ever seen him use _words_, rather than actions to defend the prison, and she felt an odd sense of pride swelling in her heart. Maybe their home wasn't a tomb after all.

Rick looked at Daryl quickly, realizing that the other man was right, even though he himself would probably have put it more eloquently than Daryl had. Still, he was in no mood to stir up unpleasant feelings between the two groups.

"So what do you suggest? Making the yard accessible to them? We could move the benches and chairs and make it safer for them to walk around," he suggested.

"And what if our old friend comes back when we've got people outside, enjoying the sun?" Hershel asked astutely. "We're sitting ducks." He looked down at his pant leg, frayed and dirty, hovering a few inches above the floor. "Some of us are sitting more than others."

There were a few chuckles around the circle but Rick remained silent and pensive.

"Can we put up any protection along the fences?" Beth asked.

Glenn raised his hand and gestured towards D Block. "As long as we don't block the views of anyone on watch, we've got scrap metal, wood and tabletops still lying around." He shrugged and looked at Rick. "It would be better than nothing I guess."

Rick nodded and rubbed at his unshaven face.

"I guess that could be a two-person job, then." he looked around at the dirty dishes, and empty cans and jars from breakfast that still littered the common area. "And we'll need someone on clean-up duty in here, too."

Rick looked decidedly to Carol when he said that last part, but when she opened her mouth to immediately offer her time, no words came out. _I can't keep up_, he'd admitted, determined to ease Carol's discomfort and help her forget what he'd said earlier.

The memory of the previous night flitted quickly through her mind and for a brief moment she considered blurting out a _Yes of course I'll take care of the clean-up_. But she wasn't foolish, and she knew better than that. Daryl didn't flirt; he didn't go for any sappy romantic gestures. He'd wanted to tell her he was sorry in the only way he really knew how. She wanted to kick herself for expecting – even if only for a brief moment – that Daryl would actively seek her out again just so he could warm her hands in his, and she knew it wasn't her place to actually _ask_ him for it.

She felt her cheeks tinge with pink when she realized that Rick was still waiting on her response. She ran her hand across the back of her neck and weighed the options before her. In truth, she wasn't looking forward to the discomfort of numb hands for the second time in two days.

"I'd like to work outside today." She said it confidently, almost challenging Rick to ask her to stay near the kitchen area. If he noticed it he didn't let on, because he only nodded and looked to the others for more volunteers.

Carol beamed, satisfied with her decision. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the corner of Daryl's mouth twitch upwards into a slight smile, and she stood a little taller in her boots. Still basking in her boldness, she didn't notice the meeting had come to a close until Tyreese gently touched her on the elbow to let her know he wanted to get started outside as soon as possible. She hadn't paid any attention to the rest of the meeting, knowing the fresh air and sunlight were beckoning to her just on the other side of C Block's walls.

xxxx

For most of the time, she and Tyreese worked in silence. They'd direct each other or comment on the job they were doing, but there was no small talk to fill the spaces in between. Carol didn't mind, for it was a comfortable silence; and she used the time to appreciate how her body could bend and lift and _move_, absorbing the heat from the sun's rays even though the temperature had dropped since summer. She and Tyreese had gotten into a rhythm as they worked, and the monotonous movements served as meditation for Carol. Her mind turned inwards and she found herself thinking back to the nights they'd spent seated around a campfire or holed up in shack during the previous winter.

It was on those nights that she'd first learned how to enjoy comfortable silences. She'd sit beside Daryl for hours at a time, watching the flames dance down into embers, and not a word would pass between them. The movements and noises from the others in the group would flit through the periphery of Carol's mind, blurry and out of focus. Still, though, she was always conscious of his breathing; his mannerisms. On the very rare occasions that she or he would say something, the other would never startle or jump at the broken silence. They anticipated each others' words but never expected them, and that suited the both of them just fine. Carol was usually the one to announce that she was going to bed first and Daryl would mumble a quiet "g'night", stealing a quick glance at her before turning back to the dying fire. Carol would then drift off to sleep feeling like she'd just spent the day talking with him, even though most of the time their conversations remained completely unspoken.

She had never questioned this part of her relationship with Daryl; it just _was_. She hadn't even been aware that the quiet moments spent with Daryl were different from those spent with others until she'd wandered so deep into her own thoughts that she didn't hear Tyreese saying her name.

"Carol?"

The silence between her and Tyreese was comfortable, but it was also isolating. She'd almost forgotten he was still there in the yard with her.

"... so I'm putting it down now."

She saw Tyreese drop his side of the tabletop but the movement didn't register in Carol's mind. She found herself trying to grasp its entire weight rather than letting it crash to the ground, as she should have done. The tabletop slipped from her grip and she felt a sudden burst of pain shoot through her hand. She looked down to see a shallow cut, shining bright and red, etched straight across her palm. It wasn't deep but Carol swore under her breath at the inconvenience she knew it would cause.

Tyreese's eyes grew wide when he realized what had happened and he slowly tilted the tabletop until it lay flat on the ground before coming over to her. "So sorry about that Carol, I should have given you more warning," he apologized, one hand on his hip as he assessed the damage done to her hand. "Mind if I have a look?"

"Oh – yes, sure," she stammered, thrusting her hand towards him, "It doesn't look bad. It just surprised me a little bit."

She couldn't help but notice how Tyreese's hands were larger than Daryl's, and much softer. He'd wrapped his fingers easily around her wrist so that her palm faced upwards to him. He tilted his head to the side and shrugged.

"So will I live, Doctor?" She squinted up at him in the sunlight and he let out a warm laugh, releasing her wrist and letting it drop back down to her side.

"You should probably lay off the high fives for a while."

She smiled in earnest at him. He seemed to be a genuinely caring guy and Carol liked that about him. It was one of those qualities that had become exceedingly rare.

"Hey!"

Carol raised her good hand to shield her eyes from the sun and saw Daryl coming down the steps to join them in the courtyard. He looked around the yard, and then looked back to Carol, Tyreese, and the tabletop that lay on the ground between them.

"You on a coffee break or what?" He couldn't help but notice that the two of them had been grinning since he'd opened the door to the yard. He'd also seen Carol quietly slip her right hand into the back pocket of her pants, hoping he wouldn't notice.

Tyreese started to explain, "I was just checking –"

"It's nothing," Carol declared abruptly. She suddenly felt ashamed of what had happened only minutes before. The parallels between then and the previous night were not lost on her.

Daryl immediately called her bluff, narrowing his eyes at her and looking down to where her hand had disappeared behind her back. "You got nothin' in your pocket?"

She rolled her eyes and looked to Tyreese, who gave her an amused look that didn't go unnoticed by Daryl. Her hesitation made him uneasy, as if she and Tyreese shared a deep secret that was stored in her back pocket. Finally, she exhaled, resigned to the fact that Daryl would be able to see right through one of her lies.

"Fine." She withdrew her hand and held it out to him. The rough movement against the fabric of her pants had smudged the blood, making the cut look much worse than it actually was.

Daryl sucked in a sharp breath when he saw her hand but relaxed when he realized she'd only been hiding a minor wound behind her back and not something private or intangible. He reached into his own back pocket and grabbed his red handkerchief. It wasn't the cleanest piece of fabric he'd ever seen but it could at least wipe up the extra blood around the cut.

"Here, take it," he let it dangle between his thumb and index finger and she snatched it up, returning his offering with a warm smile.

"Thank you," she accepted it gratefully.

He nodded and watched as she dabbed at the palm of her hand, careful not to touch the cut itself. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Tyreese watching her, too. He wanted to ask him how it was that she'd hurt herself but chose instead to let it be. After awkwardly walking in on Sasha and Carol the previous night he'd promised himself that he'd at least try to be welcoming towards Tyreese and his sister. He figured they would be the easiest people to get used to. And so, begrudgingly, Daryl held his tongue. When Carol finished, she looked up at Daryl and then back down to the bloody cloth in her hand.

"Mind if I hold onto this until I can give it a good scrub?" The handkerchief lay flat across her injured hand, darkened in places where the blood had soaked through.

Daryl just nodded silently and watched as she folded it and gingerly placed it in the same back pocket from which she'd withdrawn her hand. Since the whole thing had started he hadn't done more than give the cloth a quick dunk in the pond by the Greene farm. He imagined it would smell like cheap dish soap when he got it back, and that notion wasn't entirely unappealing to him.

"Anyway." He spat on the ground and scuffed it with the toe of his boot. "Came out here 'cause that old bag in there wants you."

Carol gasped and playfully gave Daryl a jab in the arm. "Daryl! What happened to respecting your elders?"

He ducked his head in mock-shame, but then looked back to her, completely stone-faced and continued, "Sorry… That old bag in the purple dressing gown wants you."

Carol raised her eyebrows in surprise. _Mrs. Johnson?_ "Are you sure about that?" Carol had been bracing herself every time she'd seen the woman since the previous night's confrontation.

Daryl just shrugged, glancing from Carol to Tyreese and back to Carol again. "She asked for you specifically. Didn't want anyone else."

"Huh." She was still doubtful but didn't press him any further.

She looked around at the yard. She and Tyreese hadn't even come close to finishing their job. Daryl noticed her hesitation and stepped in between her and the tabletop, reaching down to grab it before she could say anything else.

"I got this."

She reached out with her good hand and squeezed his arm in thanks, then nodded to Tyreese before turning to head back inside.

"Hey, Carol!"

She spun around to look back at the two men. Daryl had come to an abrupt stop, almost causing Tyreese to pin him in between the fence and the tabletop.

"Yeah?"

Daryl let one of his hands go and gestured towards Carol's injured hand. "Make sure Hershel checks that out for you. Don't want it to turn into tetanus or somethin'."

Carol could only smile at his concern. He himself had suffered from far worse injuries and shrugged them off like they were no worse than the average paper cut.

"I'll make sure, Daryl." Before disappearing into the prison she called back over her shoulder, "I'll tell the old bag you send your regards."

xxxx

Ever since he'd heard what happened during the Governor's first attack on the prison, Daryl understood the importance of always having someone on watch. They'd been preparing for an attack, but they hadn't been ready. He'd been told the story over and over again, about how Carol and Axel had been chatting in the yard, just having a casual conversation. And then he was gone. Daryl still hadn't quite forgiven himself for not being there in time; for not being the one on watch when it had happened – _Christ, _nobody_ had been on watch when it happened_. He hated thinking that, if only he'd been there, he may have recommended having somebody on the lookout. Axel would have still been alive. He shuddered at what could have been; what he would have felt if the Governor's first bullet had been aimed only a yard to the left. The mere thought made him sick to his stomach with grief and guilt.

Because of this, Daryl always did his best to stay focused during his shifts. He knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if something ever slipped past him while he was supposed to be the one protecting the group. The nighttime shifts were the most challenging for Daryl. Aside from the fact that most normal people were asleep in the middle of the night, the darkness made it especially difficult to detect movement in the distant trees. Sometimes Daryl's mind would fill in the black spaces of what he couldn't see with his own memories of the dark; memories that he knew would be etched into his brain until the day he died.

On this particular night, he remembered his last few moments on the Greene farm. He'd done what he could to draw out as many walkers as possible from the farmhouse, but he'd known it was futile. He'd sent that kid in Dale's RV out to the burning barn to see if anyone else needed any help. The minute the kid stopped the vehicle Daryl knew he was goner but there was nothing he could do about it. He'd done his part earlier and driven far enough away from it all that the walkers never noticed him. He had no idea where anyone else was, but he was powerless to help them without knowing their whereabouts. And so he became an onlooker, quietly sitting back and watching the herd move across Hershel's land.

He could have left the farm just then. He could have kicked off and hightailed it out of there, leaving a trail of dust in his wake and hoping – more than he'd ever admit – that everyone had gotten off the farm alive. But the flaming skeleton of the barn mesmerized him, rooting him to the spot and capturing his gaze as bright orange tendrils reached out, grasping for the darkened sky. The black silhouettes of the walkers contrasted sharply with the fiery backdrop, making it impossible for Daryl to know for sure whether they were advancing towards him or retreating away. Still, he waited, engrossed in the spectacle before him. The first plume of smoke swept through him with a sudden gust of wind and he inhaled deeply, the familiar scent plunging him into his childhood and steering him onto his old street, where the neighbourhood kids stared at him from their shiny bikes as the charred remains of his house crumbled to the ground.

As a child, he'd never fully appreciated the power of fire. He knew the feeling of cigarette burns on skin, but those hardly counted for anything. He'd seen the innocence of candles on a birthday cake through neighbours' windows and witnessed Merle's gasoline-filled backyard bonfires. But true, ferocious, _devastating_ fire? He hadn't known it until they'd told him his mother had been inside the house. _She was just gone. Erased._ Daryl didn't understand how a living, breathing human being could be reduced to ash and dust by something as abstract and anonymous as fire.

When he reached his house, it was already over. He hadn't seen the inferno with his own eyes. He hadn't been able to scream in vain at his mother from the other side of the flames to tell her to get out of bed; she was already gone. But as the hulking frame of the barn threatened to collapse before his very eyes, he saw his mother among the undead, fast asleep and unaware that she'd just left her sons at the mercy of a monster. He blinked quickly in an attempt to get the smoke out of his eyes and she was gone again, just like she was years ago.

The flames continued to dance and swell before him, building towards their last crescendo, and in that moment, he felt a personal connection with the fire. He understood it and he respected it. Above all, he wanted nothing more than for the barn to swallow as many walkers as it could before going down in one final blaze of glory.

Despite his distance from the barn, the sheer number of walkers that had ambled onto the farm meant that Daryl could still hear their moans interspersed with the loud cracks and pops of burning wood and flesh. The awesome sight before him drew him into a spellbound, almost meditative state where, for a moment, his body and his mind felt disconnected from one another. That's when he heard her. Her cries, terrified and desperate, permeated the smoggy air and reached Daryl's ears with an eerie clarity that still haunted him in the present day.

He squinted in the darkness and surveyed the prison yard that stretched out in front of him. The Greene farm was gone but her voice was still there, hovering in his mind like an extended echo even as the burning barn faded to black. He closed his eyes and shook his head vigorously, trying to bring himself back to the relative quiet of the yard; but when he opened his eyes he could still hear her panicked cries. _Damn it_. He narrowed his eyes and focused on one particular walker in the field, hoping that by turning all of his attention on the lurker he could empty his mind of Carol's voice. His surroundings quickly fell away into the periphery of his vision, but rather than fade away, the screaming only grew louder. _No_, he thought, _it can't be._ He snapped his head towards the door and his eyes grew wide, panic gripping him as he finally managed to separate the real from the imagined. _Carol._ He would have recognized those cries anywhere and given all he owned to never have to hear them again. Yet there they were, lashing out at him through the prison walls as clear as they had been on that final, heart-stopping night at the farm. He felt adrenaline start to course through him as his heart beat wildly out of control.

His legs felt like lead as he surged forward and although he was only a few yards from the door he swore it was shrinking away from him the faster he moved. _Not her_. His mind raced through every awful scenario imaginable as he finally felt his hand close over the cool metal handle, and he couldn't help the selfish plea that invaded his thoughts. _Anyone but her._ Over and over again, those three words propelled him forwards as he pulled open the door and stumbled inside. The full moon that illuminated the yard wreaked havoc on his eyes as he entered the dark prison, but he didn't stop, blindly grasping for the metal railing that was standing somewhere in the darkness in front of him. He needed to keep moving. He tried to take deep, steady breaths as he ran, steeling himself for whatever might appear before him. Even with the blood rushing in his ears, he was suddenly aware of how loud his boots were, thudding against the concrete floor. The yelling had stopped. _Why had the yelling stopped?_ He knew he hadn't imagined her screams; knew she'd been there, just on the other side of the door, only seconds ago. But before he could process what it all meant he heard other voices; some murmuring, some gasping, some quietly sobbing. He rounded the corner and came to a halt, immobilized by the scene in front of him. In an instant he felt his insides turn cold; the tightness in his stomach felt like a swift punch to the gut.

He couldn't breathe; couldn't think; couldn't formulate any more words than the single syllable that managed to escape his dry lips.

"No."

**A/N: Sorry... I just cliffhanged...**


	8. Chapter 8

_He laughed under his breath_

_Because you thought that you could outrun sorrow_

- Neko Case, "Magpie to the Morning"

To Carol, it seemed that Judith was fussiest when it was her turn overnight with the infant. Beth would often tell her how her nights with Judith were peaceful; sometimes she and her father would sleep through the entire night without being woken once. Carol didn't pray much anymore, but she would sometimes pray that when it was her turn with the baby she would be able to get a good night's sleep.

For the third time that night, though, Carol found herself pacing her cell, the growing infant crying in her arms. Unlike the first time she was woken up, though, Judith had a perfectly clean diaper. The second time she had been woken up the girl was simply crying for Carol's attention. Carol knew she should have left the infant alone so as not to spoil her, but another part of her enjoyed feeling the bundle of warmth in her arms. The third time, however, Judith's fussing was a cry for food. Carol did a quick scan of the cell, disappointed to find that she didn't have any bottles to give the young girl. Sighing, she gently lowered the infant back in her crib and began the walk towards the kitchen.

When she reached the perch she could just make out the outline of Carl's prone form in the darkness, and tiptoed carefully around the boy so as not to wake him up. She could still hear his deep, slow breathing when she reached the bottom of the stairs and continued her trek towards the kitchen area. She was greeted with heavy sighs and the occasional cough, combined with Judith's continued murmurs, as she passed the row of cells, silently noting the peacefulness of night-time at the prison.

She rummaged as quietly as she could through the boxes of cans and preserves until she found one that bore the telltale white label of the powdered formula. Placing it on the metal counter, she pulled open a drawer and withdrew the old can-opener that Carl had carried around with him all winter. The jaws of the can-opener made a satisfying noise as they clamped onto the rim and Carol slowly turned the crank, enjoying how the teeth of the can-opener punctured the silence with every turn of the handle.

As she popped off the lid she heard the sounds of someone stirring in the cellblock. Her internal clock told her it was much too early for Maggie to be taking over from Daryl on watch, but it wasn't uncommon for one of the Woodbury residents to wake in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. Still, the muffled echoes of slow, shuffling footsteps forced her to take pause. The irregular movements were uncharacteristic of what she usually heard moving through the cellblock. With the can-opener in hand, she froze as a throaty, guttural moan reached her ears. Her stomach clenched at the unmistakable sounds of a walker roaming through the cellblock and she inhaled deeply, praying that there weren't more of them coming up from the tombs. She approached the doorway slowly and felt around for her knife on her belt loop. She cursed under her breath, remembering how she'd stowed the knife under her mattress before tending to Judith. Still gripping the can-opener, she paused before turning the corner. The echoes in the cavernous space made it difficult to know how close she was to the walker, and she didn't want to collide with it after rounding the corner. Her heart thudded violently against her ribcage as she took another step forward, can-opener held out in front of her like a baseball player holding a bat. She didn't have time to go back to the kitchen drawers and retrieve one of their cooking knives; the blunt metal object in her hand would have to suffice.

With one more, deep inhalation she entered the cellblock, searching through the semi-darkness for the lopsided swagger of a walker looking for its next meal. Finally she found it; her eyes widened in horror as her sights landed on the silhouette of a walker making its way up the stairs towards Carl, who was still fast asleep on the perch. Her strategy of remaining stealthy vanished in an instant as the walker drew nearer and nearer to the oblivious boy.

"Carl!" She bellowed, taking off at a run towards the stairs as the slight walker's thin arm reached out and latched onto the boy's ankle. He jerked awake, eyes wide with confusion and then terror as the walker pulled his leg towards its hungry mouth. Amidst his panic he could hear Carol, half-yelling, half-crying, as she tore across the cellblock to reach him. He desperately reached above his head for his gun, but his flailing arms knocked the gun off the perch, sending it clattering onto the distant floor below. The walker looked frail, but it was strong, and Carl struggled to free his leg from its grip as he kicked wildly into the air.

Carol reached the stairs as the boy's leg was only inches from the walker's open jaws and she leapt forward without thinking, wrapping her free arm around the walker's waist. She shrieked as it released its grip on Carl, unable to stay upright with Carol's added weight around its middle. She toppled backwards down the stairs and landed on the ground with a sickening crunch, her side exploding with pain as the walker landed on top of her. Tears streamed down her face as the pain radiated through her body but she used every bit of the adrenaline still coursing through her veins to throw the walker off of her and onto the ground. She held onto its shoulder with one hand and swung her other arm as hard as she could at the back of its head, the bluntness of the can-opener failing to kill it with just one blow. Again and again she aimed at its head, her vision going blurry as tears continued to well up in her eyes. Every swing sent another throbbing pain through her and she cried out, louder each time, releasing all of her fear and anger and suffering at once.

She could see movement out of the corner of her eye as the others hurried out of their cells, woken up by the noise and commotion outside. Carol felt a warm hand on her shoulder but she aggressively shrugged it off, determined to finish the job herself. Nobody else dared approach her, and they stood back to watch as she repeatedly pummelled the walker until it lay immobile before her.

When the walker finally stilled in her grip she let it fall to the ground, dropping the can-opener at her side and heaving violently as the pain and exertion became almost too much to bear. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and leaned forward on her hands and knees, hovering over the monster she'd just put down. The small, limp form of a woman was spread-eagled on the ground before her, its unmistakable purple dressing gown ripped at the shoulder and splattered with thick, rotting blood. A thin sliver of moonlight shone through the window and illuminated Mrs. Johnson's milky eyes as they stared, unseeing, into Carol's own blue irises. She was hit with a sudden wave of nausea and the sounds of the others in the cellblock became distant and garbled, warping into a mess of words and letters that Carol couldn't understand. The edges of her vision blurred into nothingness and the room started spinning quickly around her. She was vaguely aware of someone approaching her before she finally succumbed to the pain of her injury, falling backward into the void of unconsciousness.

xxxx

"No."

He repeated it again, thinking that maybe, if he stayed in denial, what he was seeing wasn't real. He'd gotten good at scouting her out in a crowd, and so even though over a dozen people surrounded the two figures lying at the bottom of the steps, his eyes found her first, unobstructed through the mass of people. Even in the semi-darkness he could easily trace out the features on her ashen face. Eyes closed and expression peaceful, she could have been asleep were it not for the fact that she was lying awkwardly on the cold concrete floor. Still standing in the doorway, he tore his gaze away from her long enough to note the body of the walker and the blood that splattered the floor, just inches from where she lay. It could have been her blood; he didn't know. There were too many people still standing in the way. He looked back at Carol, fearful that if his eyes strayed away from her for too long she'd have turned already.

For one fleeting moment he found himself standing in the field, watching his own brother look up at him with dead eyes. He'd been suppressing the memory as best he could since returning with Andrea's body, but as soon as he saw Carol it came rushing back to him without warning. If only he'd gotten there an hour or two earlier. The deep pang of regret hit him square in the chest and he was back at the prison, staring at Carol's still body. Blood pumping in his ears, he swallowed hard and willed his feet to move forward. He'd been too late once before. He didn't want to be late again.

Nobody noticed him as he approached, and he didn't like it. For the first time in his life, he wanted everybody to look at him. He wanted them to say _Go back outside; there's nothing to worry about here_. He wanted that reassurance but nobody even spared him a glance. Heart still hammering in his chest, he shoved his way wordlessly through the crowd, shooting a dirty look at anyone who dared open their mouth to protest. When Carol's body finally came into full view before him he sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of her unconscious form. Hershel was kneeling beside her, a hand resting against her forehead.

"She's got no fever," he said, picking up her wrist to check her pulse.

"Is she bit?" The words escaped Daryl's lips an unfamiliar, strangled voice. He hadn't meant for it to slip out but his mind was a mess.

Hershel didn't answer immediately and Daryl felt his chest constrict even more. Doctors were always slow at spitting out the bad news. The old vet gently placed Carol's wrist back onto her stomach and Daryl could feel a lump rising in his throat. She looked like she could have been lying in an open casket.

"No. Not from what I can tell."

Daryl released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and knelt down on her other side, looking her up and down. From close up, he could see her belly rising and falling every few seconds. At the end of each inhalation he noticed a sharp hitch in her breath, and even though she was unconscious Daryl was sure she was in pain. He glanced up at Hershel, whose gaze had still not left Carol. The older man noticed Daryl's eyes on him and answered Daryl's question before he could ask it.

"Carl says she took a tumble down the steps. She could have a broken rib but it's hard to know for sure if she's not awake."

Daryl nodded, looking back down at Carol's face. He'd grown used to seeing everything in that face; knowing her intentions with a look or a nod. There was a comfort in communicating without speaking, and Daryl had to admit that he preferred that sort of luxury to anything left in their slowly disintegrating material world. Yet as he watched her, head resting against the hard prison floor, he felt completely shut out. Yes, she was alive. He knew it, and Hershel knew it, too, but the panicked feeling gripping his insides had yet to leave him completely. He needed more than just the knowledge that she was alive. He needed to _see_ it, to see _her_ – and her intentions – with his own eyes. He shifted his position on the floor and scooted his foot closer to her leg, coming perilously close to grazing her thigh with the toe of his boot. He narrowed his eyes and bit at his thumbnail, willing her to come back to them.

_Wake up_.

He thought of all the times she'd seemingly been able to read his mind, even when he'd wanted her to just leave him alone. She'd done it so easily back then; why couldn't she just listen to him now?

Daryl jumped when Beth suddenly appeared at his side, a wet cloth dripping in her outstretched hand. He stared dumbly at her for a few seconds before Hershel broke the silence, "Thank you, Bethie."

He looked pointedly at Daryl before reaching across Carol to take the cloth from his daughter. Daryl watched the man wring the cloth out on the floor before folding it and gently placing it on Carol's forehead. Daryl could feel the heat creeping up his neck, thankful there was still enough darkness to hide his embarrassment. _Get a grip, Dixon_. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, shifting his position so that his right hand rested on the floor beside her hip. After a few agonizing seconds her eyelids fluttered, and the relaxed features on her face tensed into a grimace.

xxxx

The first thing she felt was the pain, stretched across her forehead from one temple to the other. She heard no discernible voices, only the shuffling of feet and murmurs that bounced off the walls and pounded her ears. It took her a few seconds to realize that she was lying on the cold hard floor, and not in her own bed. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, not knowing if there'd be sunlight on the other side of her eyelids threatening to burst open the migraine that was simmering in her brain. All of a sudden the old woman's chalky, dead eyes flashed before her and Carol's stomach clenched, coming dangerously close to emptying its contents onto the floor. The sudden movement sent a fracturing pain up her side and her right hand flew to her ribs, clutching at the fabric of her shirt. Her left hand shot out instinctively to her side and latched itself onto the closest thing it could find.

Daryl's breath caught in his throat and he blinked down at the hand that had closed tightly around his wrist. He bit his lip as her nails dug into the soft skin on the underside of his arm, both unable and unwilling to remove himself from her grip. She had yet to open her eyes but Daryl could feel relief wash over him at the strength she still possessed.

When the pain had subsided somewhat she opened her eyes, silhouettes slowly coming into focus around her. She looked up to her left where, as expected, Daryl was already watching her with concern. She'd known it was his wrist that she'd trapped in her grip before she'd even opened her eyes. He hadn't flinched; hadn't pulled away even the tiniest amount as her fingers pressed down into his skin as hard as they could. She uncurled her fingers and moved to cover his hand with hers

"Can you walk?"

Daryl jumped when Hershel spoke, having momentarily forgotten that the vet was still kneeling at Carol's other side. Gaze never leaving Carol, he waited for her to react before speaking up. He would carry her in an instant if he needed to. He told himself he'd do it because she didn't weight very much and he was already at her side.

She smiled weakly and gingerly pushed herself up into a seated position with her right arm, keeping her left hand firmly in place over Daryl's. For the first time, she looked around at the crowd of people who had gathered at the bottom of the stairs. Looking past Daryl she saw Mrs. Johnson's tiny body, still lying where she'd left it. The woman's death had been so recent that her eyes were the only part of her that was any different from when she had been alive. Carol swallowed hard and inhaled deeply, trying to avoid that familiar stabbing pain in her side. It had been a long time since she'd last seen the reanimated form of someone she'd known but the vacancy behind Sophia's eyes was something she remembered as if she'd seen it only yesterday.

She blinked quickly as she felt tears welling in her eyes, and looked around at the people who surrounded her. She didn't understand why they were all focusing their attention on her when they'd just lost one of their own overnight. The feeling of having so many pairs of eyes on her made her uneasy, and she was determined not to make a bigger scene than she already had.

"We'll find out now, won't we?"

She gave Hershel a small smile but Daryl could still see the sadness lingering behind her eyes. She didn't deserve to go through this shock, this exhaustion, this pain. It made his chest ache to watch her but he couldn't help but feel pride at her resolve. He suddenly became very aware of how almost everyone was still staring at her like she was some kind of spectacle. Hershel and Beth? Fine, they could stay. He figured Rick and Carl and them could hang around too. But the fact that the others – the ones who barely knew her – were still watching made him uncomfortable. His first instinct was to tell them all to scram, but Tyreese thankfully chose that moment to ask a couple of the others to help him move Mrs. Johnson's body out of the cellblock. Daryl watched the other man for a few seconds as he organized his people. He begrudgingly had to admit that Tyreese seemed like a decent guy.

Carol heard Daryl mutter something under his breath about "havin' some damn manners" and she suppressed a laugh, knowing that any sudden movements would only bring about more pain.

"Might need some help getting to my feet though," she said through gritted teeth, unsure of how to proceed from a sitting to a standing position.

Before he could stop himself, Daryl took Carol's arm and settled it over his shoulders. Her fingers instantly closed over the seam of his jacket and he moved his hand over hers, keeping it firmly in place. He moved to place his other arm around her back but hesitated, not wanting to accidentally brush against her injured ribs. After much deliberation, he gently settled his hand onto the small of her back. He was surprised at how natural the gesture felt, but attributed it to the simple necessity of the situation. He couldn't let her fall.

Beth quickly moved in front of her father and took her place at Carol's other side. Daryl couldn't help but marvel at the young woman's natural caring instincts. In that sense she reminded him a little of the woman she was supporting. Together, the two of them slowly stood as Carol rediscovered her footing.

"Thank you," she said when she'd finally straightened up, "I'll take it from here."

No sooner had she said that, though, than the room started spinning around her again. Daryl felt her sway on the spot and gripped her hand tighter in his, never removing his other hand from her back. He knew there was no way she was going to make it up the stairs by herself, but she could be so damn stubborn sometimes.

"We're going to stay with you," Beth assured her brightly, and Daryl felt a rush of gratitude towards the young woman who easily spoke the words he'd been looking for.

Finally, the crowd around them began to disperse. Out of the corner of his eye Daryl could see Maggie in quiet conversation with Glenn. He saw her pat the gun sitting in the holster on her belt. Glenn nodded and she gave him a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing out of the cellblock. After she'd left, Glenn noticed Daryl watching him and the young man gave Daryl a nod from across the room. Daryl quickly returned the gesture before turning to move up the stairs with Carol and Beth. He was still surprised every time somebody in the group did something for him without asking. His shift on watch wasn't supposed to end for another hour.

Hershel and Rick followed them up the stairs and into Carol's cell, where Judith was still fussing in her crib. Rick saw Carol's eyes go wide with horror at the realization that she'd forgotten about Judith, but he reassured her that she wasn't to be blamed for forgetting about his daughter after having killed a walker, broken a rib or two and subsequently passed out on the floor below.

Carol weakly smiled at Rick's blunt description of her evening, and thanked Beth when the girl let go of her to move Judith's crib out of Carol's cell and into her own. After the girl had left, the two of them stood in the middle of the room, Carol's other arm still draped across Daryl's shoulder, his hand still supporting her lower back. She didn't really need his help anymore but couldn't find the words to tell him so.

Rick and Hershel watched the two of them from the doorway of the cell, exchanging a glance before Hershel hobbled forward, suggesting he do a quick check on Carol before leaving her to get some rest. Much to Daryl's surprise, Carol didn't protest and she let him guide her to a seated position on the bottom bunk. As soon as she was seated, he withdrew his arms from her and turned without saying a word. She shivered as he retreated towards the door, the spaces where he'd been now occupied by the cold night air. Her gaze followed him as he exited the cell and the chill in the air suddenly seemed to occupy her insides as well.

"Carol, may I have a look at your side?" Hershel had pulled up a stool to her bedside after propping his crutches against the wall of the cell.

Carol blinked twice and looked back to Hershel as Rick left, leaving just the two of them in the cell. She'd almost forgotten why Daryl had helped her to her cell in the first place.

"Of course, Hershel," she said, sucking in a breath as the cold air hit the bare skin of her side. She missed the warmth already.

xxxx

Rick left Hershel and Carol alone to find Daryl leaning against the wall just outside of Carol's cell, arms crossed and staring at the floor. He felt that if anybody deserved to be in the cell with Carol and Hershel it was Daryl, but chose to keep his opinion to himself. The last time he'd mentioned something along those lines it hadn't gone smoothly. And so the two of them stood together in silence before Rick approached Daryl and asked in a low voice, "You'll be alright?"

Daryl searched Rick's face for a few seconds as the other man gestured towards the door of her cell.

"I got this," he replied.

Rick nodded, but before leaving to head back downstairs he put a comforting hand on Daryl's shoulder.

"And you're alright?"

Daryl narrowed his eyes at his friend. "I told you I got this."

Rick clenched his jaw but didn't move from where he stood. "You know what I mean."

Daryl bit at his thumbnail and looked back down to his feet. Had he been that obvious?

"Yeah. I'm alright."

xxxx

Rick was gone for only five minutes before Hershel came out of the cell, alone. He didn't look at all surprised to find Daryl still waiting outside.

"Seems to have a fractured rib on the right side_, _but she thinks her head hit the ground, too. The details are understandably a little hazy in her mind. I think she might have a concussion."

Daryl looked up at Hershel, a knowing look in the older man's eyes. He wasn't a doctor but he understood what the vet was implying.

"You've been up all night already, so I don't expect you to stay up. Bethie and I can take turns since we have Judith for the rest of the night anyways."

Daryl bit at his thumbnail and squinted at the older man who was eyeing him wisely, eyebrows raised. He had a hard time sleeping on most nights. Did Hershel really think Daryl would be able to sleep after everything that had happened? He took Daryl's silence as confirmation that he'd be the one to stay with Carol, and so Hershel picked up his crutches and began hobbing down the walkway before pausing in front of Daryl.

"You take care of her," he said evenly, before continuing on his way down the cellblock.

Daryl watched him go, the echoes of the crutches against concrete fading away as Hershel retreated into his own cell. He hovered outside Carol's cell for several more minutes to collect his thoughts, but even as he stepped through the doorway he still didn't know if Hershel had been telling him what to do or was simply acknowledging what he'd already done.

**A/N: Sorry this one took a bit longer to get out... Hopefully it was worth the wait! Oh and congrats to those who correctly guessed that the old grumpy lady died in her sleep :) It's a thought I've been having about the show in general - it seems that with all the other messed up stuff going on in their world, dying of natural causes is basically an afterthought. Wouldn't it be a nightmare on the show if some of the old folk were to actually die in the middle of the night when everyone is sleeping? **

**And another tiny thing... I thought it was important that Carol not actually be attacked by the walker. The whole time she's on the offensive and in control of the situation, if you will (except maybe when she falls down the stairs... At that point I'd say gravity was in charge for that split second.). I liked writing her as a fighter for the duration, even after she wakes up and is getting back on her feet.**

**Anyway, all that being said, let me know what you think about this last chapter!**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: (A/N/N: Author's note's note, in case you were wondering... I try to refrain from super long A/Ns (because deep down I know you're all just here for the Caryl, AMIRITE?) but I just have some stuff and things I need to say before this one. So bear with me for a moment, or just skip to the good stuff)...**

**First off, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for the fab reviews for the last chapter! I've never written any type of action sequence before, and I have a tendency to read over bits of my writing dozens of times so by the time I actually put out a chapter the words have mostly lost their impact and meaning to me. To those who left reviews, I'm so glad you enjoyed it. Seriously though, I know I don't reply to everyone's reviews all the time (and I should! I'm a terrible person!) but please know that I appreciate each and every one, whether you liked what you read or not!**

**Secondly, many apologies for the delay in getting this one out. For several days in a row I found myself unable to string together more than a couple sentences without backspacing it all and starting over. As a result, I still don't know if I'm entirely satisfied with how this turned out... It got a lot more philosophical than I expected it to but I kind of like it, I guess. All that being said, you know what that means, right? Let me know what you think! Thanks again for reading and sticking around!**

xxxx

_It's not for you to know_

_But for you to weep and wonder_

_When the death of your civilization precedes you _

- Neko Case, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood"

When Hershel had finished checking Carol over for injuries, he helped her move to a more comfortable position on the bed. Her upright position wasn't ideal, but it was better than some of the winter nights they'd spent in empty rooms with cold, hard floors. It didn't really matter, though. So long as the painkillers had yet to kick in, her head still burst with pain and sleep was a long lost cause.

When Hershel had disappeared from view she listened for the sound of his crutches fading out of earshot. But instead of the rhythmic tapping of rubber against metal, she heard him speaking to someone just outside her cell. His words were countered only by silence, and Carol smiled to herself, easily identifying the quiet recipient of Hershel's counsel.

As Hershel finally retreated down the corridor she waited, forgetting for a moment about the throbbing pain in her side. Hershel had told her someone would be in to check on her every hour or so, making sure that she could easily wake up after falling asleep. Her head may have been aching but her ears had yet to betray her; she knew Daryl's quick, determined footsteps had yet to follow the old vet down the length of the cellblock.

After several moments Daryl passed through the doorway of Carol's cell and felt her eyes, tired but alert, already trained on him. She didn't say anything as he entered, instead carefully watching his movements as he pulled the stool Hershel had been sitting on further away from her bunk and sat down on it, leaning back slightly so that his shoulder blades brushed against the cell wall. His hands weren't used to just _resting_, with nothing to do, so he tugged at the fraying fabric that been worn through on both knees of his pants.

"You know, Hershel said I only need somebody to check up on me every hour or so."

"I heard that's what they did for concussions nowadays," he didn't disagree with her, but he also didn't move an inch from where he sat.

She smiled weakly as he twirled a particularly long bit of fabric around his index finger, eyes still downcast to his knees. She looked down at her own legs, protected from the night time air by a pair of old sweatpants Maggie had brought back from a run. She remembered that single, wonderful night at the CDC, when they'd last had a realistic hope that the nightmare of a world they were trapped in would soon come to an end. She hardly ever reflected on that one, hopeful night during the outbreak because she always ended up berating herself for having been so optimistic. No, more than that, she'd been a fool. Yet as she watched Daryl finger the rip in his pants, she found the feeling of her dirty sweatpants oddly relaxing and not at all foolish, as if she were getting ready to be tucked into a safe, clean bed at the CDC.

"It's OK," she admitted, "I don't think I'll be able to sleep, either."

She could see the tension slowly leaving him at her words, forehead smoothing and shoulders relaxing. He sat up a bit straighter on the stool once she acknowledged what they were both feeling, and finally, truly looked at her straight on.

There was pain there, no denying it. He wasn't surprised to see it but that didn't make it any easier to take. Alongside the pain, though, he saw her tremendous strength. She didn't cower anymore, didn't admit defeat. He felt a surge of pride as he watched her sit stiffly on the bed, but tried to push that feeling aside. He could never be so bold as to feel like he had any kind of influence on Carol's resilience. She'd discovered that on her own.

As he watched her run her palms absent-mindedly up and down her thighs, he noticed something _else_ in her expression; something unsettling. He'd expected to see her pain and continued fortitude, but he hadn't expected to see _this. _Her mind was racing, but to Daryl she was clearly wrestling with something bigger than reliving her most recent waking nightmare. She was troubled and he didn't know why.

With each minute that passed he could almost see the weight being added to her heavily-burdened shoulders. He wished there was a way to make her feel lightness again. Lord knew how many of them were already threatening to buckle under the pressure of their loads. But the Lord didn't know how much more any of them could take, Daryl was sure of that.

Shifting slightly in his seat, he finally cleared his throat and broke the thick silence that had engulfed them.

"One of those nights, right?"

She looked to him as the corner of her mouth twitch upwards but then quickly looked back down at her hands, which were evidently more interesting than anything Daryl had to say.

He watched her with concern, the typical feistiness she had shown upon first waking up now completely vanished. He almost wished for her to crack a joke about the two of them spending the night together, not minding an intense feeling of embarrassment if it meant she'd regain the brightness in her eyes.

xxxx

Only a few weeks ago, their roles and positions had been reversed; he was the one who sat on his bunk while Carol sat across the cell and worried for him. He tried his best, but Carol was better at this sort of stuff than he was.

"Hmm," she softly murmured, stopping her fidgeting to look around the cell.

She was frowning, but Daryl could tell it wasn't due to pain. "Could you do me a favour?"

He nodded.

"Could you get me my knife?"

He nodded again and quickly stood. He was halfway out the door before Carol could speak again.

"Wait, Daryl."

He froze, one hand curled around the bars of the cell door. It felt good to hear his name roll off her tongue again, never sounding needy but always like he mattered.

"It's under the bed." She looked sheepishly down at her hands, resting in her lap. "Between the bed frame and the mattress."

Before Carol could say another word he was on his knees, one hand pressed against the floor and the other blindly feeling for the hilt of the knife emerging from between two of the slats. Anyone else would probably have questioned the odd placement of her weapon but Daryl simply did what was asked of him. In truth, she liked that she had found a spot to keep the knife that was both well-hidden and close to her while she slept. She liked knowing that she had safety within arm's reach.

It took a few tugs, but Daryl finally managed to free Carol's knife from under the mattress, and he held it out before him. The moonlight bounced sharply off of the blade and it was only then that Daryl realized how _clean_ the knife was, as if it hadn't been used in a while. He frowned and looked up at Carol, who had raised her eyebrows at him expectantly.

"But – how did –" he looked back to the knife, as if it held any answers for him, then back up at Carol.

"Can opener."

He let out a long, slow breath. Knives were easy. One well-placed swing could end it. Of course, they could also be _too_ easy, too effortless... you could go overboard without thinking. It was harder to use a blunt object, especially on a new walker. Those took more energy, more of an emotional investment. One could easily feel like they were killing a live human being.

For a fleeting moment Daryl thought he had pinpointed the source of her torment. It was the first time she, herself, had put down someone she'd known. Sophia's death had been unbelievably difficult to witness, but being the one to pull the trigger or thrust the knife carried a heavier weight, both physically and emotionally. It became a responsibility, an interaction with somebody you used to know. Daryl had done it twice in his life, and he knew from experience that it was worse when they'd already turned.

"When it was Merle..." he shifted uncomfortably on the stool, steeling himself for what he was about to say.

"When it was Merle I had to try really hard to forget that he was already gone. I missed him."

Carol looked up at him suddenly, causing him to pause.

"I mean, I miss him... still." He cleared his throat, "but I missed seein' him. Dale was still there, you saw him. He didn't have a chance and he knew he was a goner. Sucked that my ugly face was the last one he saw but at least he knew it was over, he'd never turn."

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye but her gaze had returned to her own hands. He wondered if maybe he should stop, but he'd already dived into it. It was hard enough to speak without all these added pauses.

"But Merle... Merle didn't know. Probably hoped he'd come back and devour that sonuvabitch." His voice grew quieter. "Probably didn't want it to be me findin' him like that. I ended it but he don't know that. S'probably the worst part, that only me really knows how our... how we ended."

He stopped and brought his thumbnail to his mouth.

"Anyway."

He was trying, she knew. He put the needs of others ahead of his own on more than occasion, but he never went out of his way to speak about Merle. The fact that he was willingly dredging up memories of his brother's death – for _her_, of all people – made her heart ache, and she wished she could appreciate it better. But the heaviness in her stomach was a feeling she couldn't explain, one that wasn't directly stemming from her throbbing rib or the loss of somebody she'd known.

Daryl grew silent once more as his confession – for that's what it truly was – appeared to fall on deaf ears. He had nothing left to say that could comfort her, so he returned to what he'd always done best. He sat. Like he'd done in the RV those long months ago, he sat and shared her burden in silence.

As time passed her eyelids grew heavier, but he could still see the torment behind her eyes, and it worried him. He'd come to realize that he only _really_ knew what he was doing when he said nothing at all. Watching her cope with a restless mind, he wasn't afraid that his offering of silence would be too much. He was afraid that one of these days, it wouldn't be enough.

xxxx

Minutes ticked by in excruciatingly slow fashion. He thought about suggesting she lie down, instead of remaining sitting up. He would tell her to try closing her eyes, even if she wouldn't like what she sees back there. He would assure her that eventually, it all fades to black. But he didn't say any of those things. He didn't know what was troubling her and it both frustrated and saddened him at the same time.

Then, almost as if she'd been reading his mind, she broke what seemed like an hour long silence.

"I just –" she paused and leaned her head back against the wall. Daryl watched as she drew in a slow, uneven breath. He'd broken many bones in his lifetime, but never his ribs. He mimicked her deep inhalation, noting how his ribcage expanded as it filled with air. He was helpless but to wait for her to continue.

"I just _forgot_, you know?"

He could see the emotions welling in her eyes but remained silent.

"Every hour of every day we make sure we're protected on the outside 'cause it keeps us safe from _them_. Keeps us alive from flying bullets, or maybe a herd. And we think... that's all we need to do to survive."

She inhaled sharply and immediately brought a hand to her side, wincing in pain.

"That's how we think of death now. And I forgot. I forgot how it used to be and I forgot that we can still be got from the inside."

She had his full attention, her eyes piercing his own with an intensity that he'd never been subjected to before.

"Daryl, I forgot how people are supposed to die. I forgot that sometimes, it just _happens_. Without anyone having a say in it. Think about that! Now it's always somebody, alive or dead, who kills us, in the end."

The fierceness in her voice was replaced with something softer, more vulnerable, but still she didn't shed a single tear.

"What does that say about us?" Her eyes pleaded with his but she didn't expect anything more than silence on his end. She hated burdening other people with her emotions.

Daryl furrowed his brow and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. _Jesus. _This_ is what she's been thinking about?_ It was some deep philosophical shit but he would have been lying if he'd said he'd never thought about it before. Lying awake at night, passing the time on watch... Daryl spent a lot of time alone, and while he was there he never wasted a thought.

"I don't know," she finished. "Anyways. You don't have to answer any of that. Bet you got more than you bargained for when you told Hershel you'd stay, right?"

He shrugged and looked down at his boot-clad feet, scuff marks and all, resting heavily on the floor.

"Doesn't say anything 'bout us."

She looked up, surprised.

"What?"

He cleared his throat and sat up straighter on the stool, wiping his palms on the legs of his pants.

"I said it doesn't say anything about us."

"But Daryl, we're talking about who we _are_; what we're about –"

"Fine. What's it say about us?" He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "It says our world's turned into a piece of garbage and most of the people with it too. There was always people dyin', it just happens more often now. You still don't have a choice, when it comes down to it. You never did."

Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open in protest but no sound came out.

"It says you realize how shitty this life is now, but you remember how it used to be. Is that a bad thing?"

He watched the features on her face soften and she closed her mouth, the corners of her mouth quivering as she quickly wiped her hand across her cheek.

"I didn't bargain for anything with Hershel," he mumbled as an aside. "And you know it."

She bit down on her bottom lip, stifling a smile or a sob or whatever crazy emotion it was stirring inside her. For the first time in a long time, she had no idea what to say to him. He was still watching her like a hawk but the features on his face had relaxed, no doubt a reflection of Carol's own expression.

"I'm pretty sure I didn't hit my head," she said abruptly. "And the sun will be up in a few hours anyway so if I'm not up by then... I'm sure somebody will notice."

Daryl raised his eyebrows at her and brushed a few strands of hair out of his eyes. She couldn't help but notice how tired he was. She loved his company but knew how important he was to the group; she couldn't be the one to make him miss out on precious hours of sleep.

"You need to get some sleep."

He scoffed and nodded in her direction, "what about you, you look like death."

She pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh that she knew would rattle her ribcage.

"I'll sleep." She eyed him warily, needing him to know that it was more important for him to rest than to watch over her until the sun came up. "Promise me you'll get some rest."

His eyes lit up at this, her familiar words echoing in his mind as she settled herself onto her elbows, then her back, and closed her eyes. He felt his cheeks flush; he'd seen her sleep in the past but never when she knew he was there. Watching her from a seated position in her cell made him feel like a creep so he grabbed her knife from the table he'd set it down upon and fiddled with it in his fingers, gently running his thumb over the blade. At last he managed to draw just a single drop of blood and a sucked at his thumb, reminding himself that he'd need to show her how to sharpen her knife someday soon. When he looked back up at her he saw that her facial features had settled into a relaxed expression, and the slow pace of her breathing told him that she was, in fact, asleep.

Setting the knife back down on the table he stood, careful not to wake her by scraping the stool against the concrete floor. Only when he stood did he realize how truly tired he was, and he steadied himself by putting a hand against the wall before finally admitting to himself that he needed to get some much-needed shut eye.

xxxx

Dawn arrived early. It didn't matter that Carol had been woken up three times in the night by a crying infant; didn't matter that her limbs ached for more rest and her head still throbbed dully, angry at her for waking after barely three hours of solid sleep. The sun had risen, like it always did, and this time it seemed to be poking its nose out earlier than Carol thought possible.

She kept her eyes closed, hoping to trick her body into falling back asleep, but there was no fooling it. Carol was awake, and for one of the first times in her life she didn't feel guilty about wanting more time in bed. The previous night's events flashed through her mind like she knew they would, but surprisingly it wasn't the old woman's face that she saw, looking up at her blankly, but rather Daryl's slouching form, sitting across from her in the dark cell, keeping a silent vigil for her restless mind. She smiled to herself and opened her eyes, sights landing on the lonely stool that had no doubt been vacated as soon as she'd closed them.

He was gone, of course. She should have expected it, knowing that Daryl tended to do what she said even though he would never admit as much. She'd outright _ordered_ him to get some shut eye, and she was better than anyone at recognizing when he was working or hunting on zero hours of rest. He knew it too, which was why Carol had a hard time justifying the strange feeling of disappointment she felt as she stared at the empty stool.

Rubbing her eyes, she stretched her tired legs out on the mattress and looked down the length of her own body as her belly rose and fell. She'd never really appreciated how painless the act of breathing was under normal circumstances. Now, anything more than a quick, shallow inhalation was like getting stabbed in the side. Thinking back, it was miraculous that of all the things Ed had done to her, he had never injured her ribs in this way. She reached a hand down and lifted up her shirt just enough to see the purple and yellow discoloration that had already appeared around the injured area. Sighing gently, she lowered her shirt back down and brought her hands to rest on her stomach. Most people would have been alarmed to see such grotesque marks covering their torso. Carol was only happy that for once the sight of her own discoloured flesh didn't cause her to feel even an ounce of shame. No, despite the pain they caused her, Carol was proud that, when she'd gotten _these_ bruises, she'd been fighting. And she'd won. Nothing, not even a broken rib, would ever dare tell her otherwise.

With each passing minute the cell got brighter and brighter, easing Carol into wakefulness as gently as possible given her serious lack of sleep. As winter drew nearer dawn came later, but for most residents of the prison that still qualified as an ungodly hour to be fully awake. She closed her eyes again and tried to predict what was going on in the common area down below. Daryl was already gone, that was a given. He didn't like missing a single, sunny morning of hunting, especially not with all the extra mouths to feed. Hershel would be awake, she knew. She imagined him holding Judith in one arm while finishing off a bowl of oatmeal with the other. She couldn't help but feel a tiny bit proud whenever she saw the man, knowing that she'd played at least a small part in saving his life. He'd be joined at the table by Rick, of course, mind already reeling and planning the rest of the day. There was a slim chance that Beth was also there, if only to make sure that her father was feeding Judith properly. Carol felt her dry lips crack as her lips split into a wide smile, her first since the previous afternoon. She found it hard to believe that there'd been a time when she hadn't known any of these people. Before all of it happened, she'd lived only for Sophia. Since the farm had been overrun, she'd lived for and because of the rest of her people. She wished the two could have existed together, instead of one filling the gaping hole that had been left by the other.

Finally resigned to her fate, Carol slowly, carefully propped herself onto her elbows, then pushed herself up with her hands into a seated position. She looked down at her hands, cleaned of Mrs. Johnson's blood but still roughed up at the knuckles from wrestling the old woman onto the floor. From her hands she looked down to her legs, sights shifting all the way down to her feet where she pointed and flexed her bare toes in an effort to bring some energy to them. Naturally, her gaze shifted from her bunk to the floor, and she froze when her eyes settled on what had been placed neatly beside the foot of her bed.

_Boots_.

Brown, scuffed and dirty, there was no way they belonged to Carol. Just to make sure, though, she glanced down quickly and confirmed that her own boots were indeed still sitting on the floor beside her, as Hershel had left them the night before. She squinted back at the suspect boots, but just as she managed to identify their owner she heard a soft noise coming from the bunk above.

Eyes darting upwards she held her breath and waited. She didn't trust her eyes and ears to work properly on so little sleep, but as the seconds ticked by it was undeniable that for each breath she held, the man sleeping in the bunk above her was betraying the silence with his own peaceful exhalations.

The old metal bed frame creaked as Daryl shifted in his sleep and she wondered if maybe she should wake him; surely he'd be mad at missing out on a perfectly good day of hunting. But then she remembered how he'd looked the night before, with heavy eyelids and dark circles deceiving the intensity of his gaze. He _needed_ the rest more than she did, for despite his silence on the matter she knew that not a day went by where the lack of closure from his brother's death didn't weigh him down. So she let him sleep, not even admitting to herself that maybe, just maybe, a tiny part of her _wanted_ him to stay, too.

She imagined him rolling over, letting an arm fall over the edge of the mattress, where she could easily reach out with one hand and let her fingertips graze the back of his hand. The mere thought of that caused her heart to race but he was such a light sleeper that she feared any kind of physical contact would rouse him. Instead, she drew her knees in closer to her chest and clasped her hands over her shins. The thin prison mattress felt like a king-sized pillowtop under her weary bones, infinitely more comfortable and reassuring than the soft twin bed she'd occupied at the CDC. Gently, she lowered her head, resting a temple on her knees. In the approaching daylight she could see her knife glinting on the table from across the room, and felt infinitely safer than if she'd had it by her side.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Kind of a slow one this time around, I hope to pick up the pace next chapter and update sooner than I have these last two times...**

**This chapter is dedicated to Yvette Nicole Brown, for reasons I hope will be evident when you get to the end.**

xxxx

_Please show me something that isn't mine_

_But mine is the only kind that I relate to_

- Arcade Fire, "Black Mirror"

Rick chewed his food slowly and deliberately. The porridge felt like wet sawdust between his teeth but he choked it down, convincing himself that he needed to be grateful for every bit of sustenance they had left. People filtered through the common area as the sun rose higher above the horizon outside, but nobody spoke to him. Everyone, Rick included, was rattled from the night's events, and he didn't blame anyone for avoiding eye contact with him or looking more bleary-eyed than usual.

After leaving Daryl with Carol, he'd gone to see if Tyreese needed help with Mrs. Johnson's body. He'd returned to his own cell afterwards but spent the rest of the night sitting up in bed, chin resting in his hands, feet resting on the floor. He'd sat like that until dawn broke, then descended into the common area and waited while the prison slowly came to life.

He felt himself invisible to all but two people. Hershel, who spoke quietly to Tyreese a couple tables over, seemed to be focusing more of his attention on the former sheriff who sat by himself, silently moving porridge around in his mouth. And Carl, who sat on the bottom step leading up to the perch, fiddled with his holster so nonchalantly that it was painfully obvious to anyone around that he was trying to ignore his father's presence.

With one last, hard swallow, Rick set the bowl containing the dregs of his breakfast down onto the metal table and made his way over to the stairs where the boy sat. They'd hardly said a word to each other all night, despite passing each other in the cellblock numerous times. Carl, it seemed, had been plagued by the same insomnia that had struck his father, and ended up keeping watch for the night with whoever else had been designated to stand guard. Rick hovered awkwardly in front of his son, who had developed a great interest in the stitching on the pocket of the holster. He thought about sitting beside him on the bottom step, but that would make the two of them seem too chummy. He considered kneeling in front of the boy, but that felt too direct. Finally, he reached a hand out and leaned against the railing, placing his other hand on his hip in an attempt to appear casual.

"We need to talk about what happened last night."

Carl stared at his father's boots but didn't say a word. Rick hadn't expected him to.

Drawing in a deep breath, he continued, "We might need to rethink the sleeping arrangements."

Carl snorted and tilted his head up, steely blue eyes staring up at Rick from underneath the wide brim of the sheriff's hat.

"You might need to rethink a lot of things."

Rick nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. What he wouldn't have given for Carl to come down with a simple case of teenage angst.

"I can't have you sleeping on that perch, it's too exposed."

The boy narrowed his eyes at his father. _What was that expression again?_ Rick tried to match Carl with a gaze of his own that he hoped contained equal intensity. _Ah, yes. Staring daggers._

"I was OK with it before but not now. Not after last night." He shifted in his boots as Carl rose to his feet. He couldn't remember when his son had grown so tall.

"So you think we should just keep everyone tucked into their beds, just waiting for the next one to die?"

Carl raised his voice but didn't shout; each syllable careful and measured. Rick could feel the muscle in his jaw twitching, almost daring him to challenge his son, but he remained quiet.

"Dad, the problem isn't where _I_ sleep. The problem is _them_. If she hadn't died nothing would have happened to me."

He paused, and Rick caught a brief glimpse of that innocent child, mesmerized by a lone deer in the woods. Flickering somewhere behind those hardened adolescent eyes.

"_Nothing happened_ to me."

Carl's voice regained the strength of before as he tucked a thumb through his belt loop. In that moment neither of them realized how much they looked like each other.

"I'm not the problem, anyways," he continued. "Lock _them_ up, the ones who are about to die."

"Carl, you know I can't do that."

"Why not? Because you think you'll hurt their feelings?"

He wanted to shout at his father; his voice came ever so close to breaking.

"They have to know they're close to dying, Dad. This isn't about being the nice guy. It's about doing what you have to do. To keep us safe."

Rick didn't like the way his son looked up at him; _challenged_ him. He'd heard that line before, but every time it cut through him like a knife. Wasn't that why he was standing in front of Carl right now? Hadn't that been his sole purpose in life ever since he'd first arrived at the quarry camp?

"I need to know that you'll be alright," he said honestly. "If Carol hadn't been awake last night, who knows what could have happened to you?"

A trace of fear ghosted across Carl's face before quickly disappearing again.

"I'm old enough. I can handle myself."

He reached down and carefully fastened his holster around the leg of his jeans, as if to put an end to the conversation.

"You're not an adult, Carl."

"I'm not a child," he spat back, "you said so yourself, remember?"

"You're not sleeping out there."

Carl let out an exasperated breath and looked back up to his father. He was quickly learning that some things weren't worth the fight.

"So where's Daryl going to sleep?"

Rick's sights flitted above Carl's head, where the man's crossbow was still slung over the railing at the top of the stairs. Carl's raised voice would surely have woken one of them up by now. He chose his words carefully.

"You'll have to speak with him yourself."

"You're not letting him stay out on the perch either?"

Rick pursed his lips and looked up to the row of cells on the second floor. Without a doubt, the hunter was a man of actions rather than words.

"Daryl knows what needs to be done."

"So you're letting Daryl do what he wants but you have to tell me what to do?"

He moved to stalk past his father but Rick caught him by the crook of his arm, still small under his grip.

"Carl, it's not like that. Daryl knows what's best for the group –"

"And I don't?" Carl tore his arm out of his father's grasp and took a step back, narrowing his eyes at the man.

Rick bowed his head and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.

"I'm trying to keep everyone safe."

"By avoiding the real problem?"

"By looking out for each other."

Carl's lips threatened to curl into a smirk and he shook his head, reaching down to settle the Beretta into its holster.

"I'm not your problem."

"You're my son."

The last word rolled off Rick's tongue thickly, his voice sounding distant and strange to his own ears. Carl laid his hand over the butt of his gun, gently strumming his fingers against the cool metal.

"I gotta go take watch," he said evenly, carefully avoiding Rick's gaze.

"I'm glad you're alright."

He evaded Rick's outstretched arm as it reached for his shoulder, and sidestepped his father on his way out of the cell block.

"Carl."

The boy was gone before his name could leave his father's lips.

xxxx

Carol couldn't help but feel like she had walked in on a very private conversation. Despite the fact that she hadn't moved an inch from her bed, and despite the fact that Rick and Carl had been speaking out in the open, she felt like it wasn't right for her to be listening. Judging by the stillness coming from the top bunk, Daryl felt the exact same way.

"That poor man."

Carol's voice easily cut through the tension of Rick and Carl's conversation as it drifted up to Daryl's bunk. He'd been woken up by a raised voice, which was rare for Daryl, really – he was usually awake long before anyone else was up. Eavesdropping on their argument had been hauntingly familiar yet strangely foreign. He was used to fighting his old man. He knew what it was like to be at odds with the person who was supposed to be your most important role model. But Dixon men preferred actions over words. Always had. When stuff broke their toolbox only had hammers, and their stuff seemed to break an awful lot.

Daryl wasn't sure if Carol's comment was directed at him or the air in general, so he didn't say anything in reply; just kept staring at the dark ceiling above him.

"Trouble finds him, doesn't it?"

Carol looked up into the underside of the mattress above her head. Not one of them had it easy nowadays, but it was most evident with Rick. Maybe because, when he'd found them all at the quarry, camp he'd been the luckiest. He had his whole family there to love. He also had his whole family there to lose. Carol didn't like being witness to it coming apart at all of its seams.

"Trouble finds us all," Daryl replied simply.

She sighed gently and closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the cold cinderblock.

"Yeah."

He didn't need to tell her that she'd probably been the most hard-done-by out of all of them. She was reminded of it every night when she went to bed, wrapping a thin sheet tightly over herself instead of tucking under the edges of Sophia's blankets. He rolled over onto his side, distant chatter and scraps of conversation reaching his ears as he lay there silently.

The urge to be mobile finally overcame him and he hopped down from the bunk, landing lightly on his feet before settling down onto the end of Carol's mattress. She jumped as the mattress shifted under his weight, opening her eyes to find him shoving his feet hastily in his boots.

"What do you have planned today?"

He paused, the laces of his boots still wrapped messily around his thumbs and index fingers.

"Probably gonna try to scare us up some dinner."

He glanced towards the entrance to the cell, where the mid-morning sunlight was streaming through the small barred window. He had already slept through precious hours of daylight, and the earth wasn't stopping its turning anytime soon. He turned to face her again and she nodded in understanding. His eyes darted from her face, past her chest and onto her lap, where she was lazily picking at her fingernails. He'd never noticed her doing that before.

She watched as his gaze quickly skirted over her body before turning to look back down at his own boots, more intently than ever. He wasn't much for small talk, but they'd gotten used to finding out what the other would do each day. It was just how they worked. Daryl felt his cheeks burn just thinking about the question he'd almost blurted out in return. _And how 'bout you? Your plans?_ He felt strangely guilty for being able to leave the prison so freely. On most days Carol stayed indoors, tending to Judith and the Woodbury folk. Now she'd have great difficulty just leaving the cell. He didn't want to hear her plans. It would only make him feel worse.

"I'm thinking maybe I'll just start counting upwards," she cocked her head playfully, "and then once I reach a million I'll count back down to zero."

She almost felt bad when she saw that the first look to cross his face was one of absolute mortification. But the wide-eyed, frantic Daryl only showed himself for a split-second before he shot Carol a death glare, a smile threatening to form on his lips as he shook his head and looked back down at his feet.

"I'll be fine, Daryl. Maybe today the village of people living here can take care of _me_."

"Right," he said gruffly, giving his laces one final tug, "let me know if any of 'em ain't pullin' their weight."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Carol's eyebrows go up – way up – as he felt heat creeping up the back of his neck.

"What'll you do to them if they don't?"

He didn't like the mischievous look that had appeared on her face, didn't like how she suddenly seemed to be holding a million dirty little secrets against him, threatening to spill them all if he didn't give her the right answer.

She could almost see the gears turning in his head, knowing he was trying to come up with an answer that wouldn't earn him even more teasing. He looked at her quickly before biting his lip and staring off into a spot on the opposite wall.

"Nothin' illegal."

Carol let out a genuine laugh, her smile reaching her eyes, before the pain radiated once more. Daryl's eyes shot immediately to her side and he watched her with concern.

"It's fine," she lied, "the pain goes away real quick."

He didn't believe her but knew he didn't stand a chance trying to argue with her, so he let it be. He wasn't a doctor but he figured the best way for her to heal was to rest as much as possible, and his presence certainly appeared to be delaying that.

He moved to stand up but Carol reached forward and grabbed his arm before he could escape. The rushed movement sent another wave of pain through her body but she didn't recoil, tugging his arm towards her so his face was but a foot away from her own. Daryl froze at her unexpected touch, staring down at her thin fingers as they tightly gripped the space just above his elbow. She watched as his gaze moved slowly, nervously, from her hand up to her face. For a moment she was silent, her blue eyes searching his face, trying to place the look that had settled upon his weathered features the instant she'd grabbed hold of him. He swallowed, licked his lips, kept his own sights trained on Carol as she found in his expression a touch of fear and nervousness alongside warmth, comfort and what she swore was at least a tiny bit of hope. _No_. She blinked hard and opened her eyes again to find those familiar eyes, the ones she knew so well, staring back at her. _Not that last one._

She was glad he didn't pull away, even as she held onto him for longer than she should have, and let her eyes wander more freely than she'd ever done before. Maybe he was still worried for her; maybe his reflexes were still dull from waking up so late. Either way, he let her get away with a lot more than other people. She knew it, and she was pretty sure that he did too.

With each second that passed his lips felt drier and drier. She leaned in closer to him and he caught a whiff of that cheap dish soap, more comforting to him than the mixture of dirt and trees that surrounded him whenever he left to go hunting. For most of his life, _that_ had been the scent that brought him home. But in that instant it hit him, without a doubt, and the realization made his head spin.

His chest had been pounding since she'd grabbed him unexpectedly, but he couldn't explain why it still beat so fast, almost anxiously, as her fingers gently but firmly pressed into his skin. She'd brought his arm close to her so his face remained only inches from hers, both sets of eyes wide as if neither of them knew what would happen next.

"Thank you, Daryl," she breathed at last, before releasing his arm as suddenly as she had trapped it.

She wanted to thank him for staying with her, wanted to tell him he could have gone back to the perch because she didn't need anyone staying with her for the night. Wanted to tell him he didn't need to do any of what he'd done. But she didn't. She knew he didn't like being showered in thanks, and she didn't really want him to go back to the perch. Most of all, she could never tell him he didn't need to do any of what he'd done, because in his mind, he did. He always did.

He swallowed hard and ducked his head, dropping his gaze to his feet before pushing off the mattress and hitching his pants up higher around his hips. It was his habit to never, truly, say good-bye to her. He always told her to take care of herself and the others, and sometimes told her what his plans would be when he got back, but he never, ever, left on a note of finality. It didn't sit quite right with him.

"We'll sharpen that when I get back," he gestured to the small knife, still resting innocently on the tabletop.

She nodded in silent acquiescence as he turned to leave the cell.

"Stay safe," she added softly, the words slipping out honestly.

She'd said it so quietly, barely audible above a whisper, that she doubted he'd heard her at all. But he paused at the entrance to the cell, back still facing her, knowing full well that on that day she'd be in no safer place than her own bunk in cell block C.

"You too," he replied at last, before leaving her to be alone with the rhythmic sound of his vanishing footfalls.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Updating was so much easier when I was unemployed. I swear, one of these times I'll actually mean what I say.**

xxxx

_Then I'll go out back and I'll get my gun_

_I'll say, "You haven't met me, I am the only son."_

- Mumford & Sons, "Dustbowl Dance"

The forest was quiet and the air was thick, surprisingly heavy with humidity even though the months had stretched into the fall. His eyes and ears were alert, poised and ready to pounce at the telltale rustle of leaves or the snapping of tree branches. Most days, Daryl tracked and hunted as a form of meditation. He harnessed his focus, pulling it near to him, gathering his straying thoughts and squeezing them into the dark recesses of his mind until they disappeared altogether.

And yet, that very afternoon, while his sense and reflexes were sharp, his mind was not. _Too much sleep_. Yes. That must have been it, making him groggy. Or maybe too little sleep, his tired mind too weak to properly string two thoughts together. Whatever the reasons were, deep down, Daryl knew they were bullshit. His eyelids felt weightless, legs limber and arms strong. The previous night's sleep had been one of the best he'd had in a long time, worries pushed aside once his head had finally hit the pillow.

He didn't really have an excuse for his mind being so out of focus – at least, not one that he could dwell on. Not when he had so many people depending on him back at the prison.

To make things worse, the forest was damn quiet; no animals to be had. He'd been spoiling everyone recently, bringing back rabbits seemingly every other day. Once he'd even nabbed a wild turkey that had been dumb enough to practically stake itself onto his loaded crossbow. But he had a nagging feeling the spoils had run out, at least for this day. He scolded himself for not having left earlier, when the wildlife was more active, before it got too hot. How the hell had he been able to sleep in so late?

He didn't wear a watch when he was tracking. Never had before, either. Still, he was pretty good at estimating the time, and he figured he'd been on the move for about an hour already and had yet to see any other life forms worth the effort to catch. It was strange, really. He couldn't remember the forest ever having been so empty, except maybe... once. He blinked hard and made his way around a felled tree, its rotting trunk too thick to climb over. _Patience, baby brother_. He stopped for a moment, ears pricking at the sound of a busy pattering, slowly growing louder until he could feel the arrival of an early afternoon rain shower. Nothing too bad, but rain nonetheless. Peering up through the canopy of dying leaves, he saw the clouds, low-lying stratus, light grey in colour, and continued onwards. If nothing else, the light rain would make it easier to identify animal tracks – assuming there were any animals to be caught in the first place.

He'd been walking for at least a half hour when he found them. Two sets. Side-by-side and amiable, like their owners had been out for an afternoon stroll. But he knew that wasn't it. Nobody sauntered into the red zone unless they were desperate – or worse, determined.

He followed the tracks for a hundred yards, stealthily, as if he were hunting a paranoid doe. He stopped often, listening for the sound of voices, for he knew, by the evenness and directness of the footprints, that these humans were still alive.

The tracks ascended a gradually sloping hill, and Daryl looked down when he reached the edge to find a small drop – only about ten feet – ending in a winding, slow-moving creek. Two young men – boys, practically – barely older than Carl sat back-to-back on a nearby boulder, eyes lazily scanning the trees nearest them for signs of movement. Daryl had to suppress an unimpressed grunt at the sight of these two kids and their poor attempt at keeping watch. One of them looked slightly older than the other, but both had the same hunched posture and hooked nose.

Brothers.

"What kind of building are we looking for again?" the smaller one asked, as if he should have known the answer already.

The bigger one shrugged. "Didn't say, exactly. Just that we'd know when we found it."

"It's getting cold out. It'll be dark soon. What if we don't find it?"

The smaller one reached down and massaged his right ankle, wincing as he did so. He cast a death glare at the small pile of leaves by the creek, underneath which was an abandoned rabbit hole just big enough to fit a human shoe. He'd been fool enough to think the foliage would cushion his landing.

The bigger and presumably older one shrugged again. "Dunno. Maybe he'll pick somebody else for the next run." The boy spat and withdrew a gun he'd been keeping in the waistband of his pants. Looked it up and down, as if it were some new toy he'd just opened for his birthday.

The younger one spun around, wide-eyed, and grabbed his brother by the arm, causing the older one to jump and fumble the pistol. It landed softly in the leaves at his feet.

"You don't think he'd choose somebody else to actually _do_ it, though, do you?"

The older one shrugged his brother's hand off him roughly, and reached down to swipe the gun up off the ground.

"I don't know!" he snarled, "Jesus, Max, calm down. He already said it'd be one of us, just calm down."

He put on a tough face but he lacked conviction, as if he didn't really believe his own words.

Daryl shifted in place, lying on his side with his back pressed against a tree. He partially hid underneath a bush, ensuring that while he had a clear view of the two boys, they had great difficulty seeing him. He knew he was in a dangerous position; anyone, living or dead, coming up the hill would see him lying there, vulnerable and practically defenseless. But something held him in place, an uneasy feeling in his gut that told him he needed to know where these two brothers came from.

He wriggled closer to the edge of the drop-off, his left foot snapping a twig as it dug into the soil for a better hold on the wet ground. Daryl held his breath, keeping his eyes trained on the two boys, but neither seemed to have heard him. He exhaled and tightened his grip on his crossbow, always at his side. He could already feel the wetness from the ground soaking straight through his clothing but didn't move any further.

"So when we find this place, do we have to do anything?" asked the younger one, Max.

The older one shrugged and stood up, stretching his arms towards the sky.

"Just scouting it out, I'm pretty sure." He ran a hand through his dripping wet hair and gave his younger brother a jab in the arm before striding purposefully away. "C'mon, we're wasting daylight if we wait any longer."

Max scrambled to his feet, smoothing his damp sweater against his front before reaching down to tighten the laces of his shoes. He straightened up and limped after his brother, right knee buckling slightly with every step he took.

From his hiding spot in the brush, Daryl brought a hand to his stomach and wrung out the excess water that still clung to his shirt.

xxxx

The rest of the morning passed slowly. Beth arrived only minutes after Daryl left, offering Carol a bowl of cold porridge from her outstretched hands.

"Daryl told me you were hungry when you woke up," she said, pulling the stool up to Carol's bedside.

The young woman gave Carol a small, expectant smile, refusing to withdraw the bowl even as Carol stared down at it, hands still glued to her lap.

"Did he have any himself?"

Beth bit her lip and lowered the bowl so it rested on her knees. Daryl had arrived in the kitchen area, taken one quick look into the near-empty pot and told Beth he'd already eaten breakfast up in the cell.

She blushed and shook her head. Sometimes she still felt like a child, believing the little lies people told her.

Carol smiled at the girl and reached out to take the bowl out of Beth's hands.

"But everyone else got some?"

Beth nodded. "You two were the last ones up."

"I don't think that's ever happened before."

The girl shrugged. "You deserve it, you and Daryl."

Carol looked up at Beth, hands clasped together in her lap, her face bright and open with an honest smile. She had a simple way about her, Beth did. Carol felt it would be a great disservice to say Beth was naive, for nobody still alive in their present world could afford to be so innocent. Still, the girl had a way of speaking that cut Carol deep; an ability to take her aback with few words, so full of meaning.

_You deserve it, you and Daryl_. She didn't understand why those words, so plain and unguarded, made her self-conscious, forcing her look back down at the bowl resting in her lap. Beth was talking about them as individuals, of course. Carol took a large spoonful of food in her mouth, suddenly ravenous. She and Daryl were often mentioned in the same sentence, side-by-side. She swore the others did it on purpose sometimes, just because their names sort of rhymed. Why did it sound so _different_ this time, when Beth said it?

"A good night's sleep."

She and Daryl. _Deserving_ something.

"What?" she struggled to get the words out around the mouthful of food she'd yet to swallow.

"I said you two deserve a good night's sleep more than anyone," Beth repeated, "except maybe Rick."

Carol finally managed to gulp down the lump of wet oats that had accumulated in her throat, hopeful that Beth would assume the pinkish hue of her cheeks was due to her almost choking on her breakfast.

"I'm not much use now anyways," Carol admitted, "unless it's something I can do sitting down, without moving."

Beth watched the woman as she took another mouthful. She was so graceful and calm, just eating oats and water out of a cheap ceramic bowl. Since they'd lost the farm, and _especially_ since they'd found the prison, Beth had looked to Carol like a mother. She'd never said it out loud, for fear of embarrassing herself or even Carol, but she felt it just the same.

"I'll go crazy if I can't keep my mind occupied."

She remembered watching Carol through the windows of the farmhouse as she cooked and washed, constantly busying herself with chores, however mundane. She'd never seen a picture of Sophia but she imagined that the girl had been pretty, before she'd turned. It made her sad, even now, to think about what Carol must have been going through back then. The mind filled itself with the worst possible things when it had nothing else to think about.

"I'll find you something to do," she said reassuringly, reaching out to pat Carol on the knee.

Carol smiled at Beth in between mouthfuls and then went back to scraping the few remaining bits food out of the bottom of the bowl. Beth watched in awe at Carol's serenity as she sat in bed, almost surely in pain. If Carol had wanted Beth to leave her alone she gave no indication, and so Beth stayed, perched delicately on the edge of the stool. She wondered, deep down, if Carol worried about Daryl as much as she herself worried about her father and her sister, or if the woman had already come to accept whatever fates were sure to meet them sooner or later.

She may have been young but she wasn't blind, and she certainly wasn't stupid. She was observant enough to notice the subtle, almost subconscious glances that the others didn't. She was quiet enough to catch bits of stolen conversation when she really shouldn't have been listening. She remembered watching him when Carol was lost in the tombs and she remembered talking to her when Daryl had gone off with Merle. She recognized love when it was plain as day.

"It's nice seeing how much he cares about you," she said honestly.

"Daryl would risk his life to save any of us," Carol countered, "just like you said, remember?"

"I know he would." She gripped her fingers around the seat of the stool and watched her own boots as they tapped on the cold floor. "But he would never have stayed with _Glenn _all night if he'd been hurt."

Carol chuckled at the way Beth said Glenn's name.

"Be nice, Beth," she handed the girl back the empty bowl. Cold porridge or not, it didn't take long to devour a few spoonfuls of anything nowadays. "He'll be your brother soon."

Beth ducked her head and Carol could see a smile hiding behind the curtain of blonde hair that had fallen in front of the girl's face. As much as she knew Beth had only been imagining a hypothetical situation, Carol found herself compelled to reason through it regardless.

"Besides," she smoothed the hem of her shirt. "Glenn has Maggie."

Beth watched the older woman as she busied her hands with pointless gestures. She recognized that tone of voice, part defensive and part hopeful. _Daryl has his code_.

"I know."

She leaned forward and gave Carol a small peck on the forehead before straightening back up, empty bowl in hand.

"And Daryl has you."

xxxx

He waited until they'd almost disappeared from view before moving out from under the shrub. A little ways away he could see a tree down below that had grown angled towards the forest ledge. Daryl deftly used it as a ladder, landing lightly on his feet before setting off after the boys.

They moved with a smoothness that surprised Daryl, despite the younger one's injury. The older one walked proudly with his gun in his hand, careful with his footsteps to not disturb too much on the forest floor. Surprisingly, Max easily kept up with his older brother, still limping noticeably but seemingly having a decent tolerance for pain. He chose to keep his own gun holstered.

The boys eventually reached the edge of a clearing and Daryl cursed under his breath. He wouldn't be able to follow them if they went any further, and they'd hardly spoken two words to each other since they'd set off again. They were part of a larger group, that much was certain. And while Daryl conceded that they weren't completely inept, he just couldn't imagine them being valued members of their group. Max and his brother were definitely doing somebody else's dirty work.

Miraculously, before stepping into the clearing Max reached out and grabbed his brother's arm, signalling for him to stop. Daryl threw himself behind the trunk of an elm, and waited, listening.

"C'mon bro, stopping again?"

"I gotta fix my laces, okay? I think my ankle's pretty busted up, it's swelling."

Daryl could hear the defensiveness in Max's voice, his need to reassure his brother that he was still tough as nails.

"Go on, do what you gotta do."

From his spot pressed up against the old elm, Daryl sighed quietly. Apparently even the humans he was tracking weren't worth his time.

"Hey, Jamie?"

The older one sighed. "James."

"Whatever. The others can call you James, not me."

Another sigh. Daryl imagined another shrug, too.

"What if, in the end, he only picks one of us to go? Do you think we'll be able to share the reward?"

Jamie kicked at a rotting log and scoffed.

"We can't share the reward, dumbass. It ain't the kind that gets shared."

"How do you know?"

"You don't _share_ recognition if it's only one of us who does it. You don't _share_ respect like you do a hundred bucks." Jamie knelt down so that he was level with Max, who was still hunched over his injured ankle. "You've gotta _earn_ it."

An odd gleam appeared in Jamie's eyes, a flickering of what could be, a _challenge_ to his younger brother. Max considered this seriously for a few seconds.

"So this run today, this is like us proving ourselves?" Max deduced excitedly. He hastily shoved his foot back into his shoe, tying the laces with renewed vigour. "And if we find it, it'll just prove how deserving we are!"

Jamie looked both excited at this conclusion and disappointed that he hadn't been the one to reach it first.

"Guess so," he conceded through clenched teeth. "You know what _I_ wanna know?" he wondered, in an attempt to change the subject

Max looked up at him.

"I wanna know what happened to his eye."

"The Mexican guy said he got in a fight."

"Shut up dumbass, you know what I mean." Jamie gave Max a shove, one that was a bit too forceful to be considered playful. "I wanna know _details_. Like was it a biter, or a human... What sort of weapon they used..." He trailed off, lost in his own thoughts of losing an eye in glorious hand-to-hand combat.

Max stood up and looked back down at his shoes, finally satisfied with how he'd tied the laces.

"I just don't understand what we're earning in the end, if all we gotta do for the big job is just go in there and wait."

Even Jamie looked stumped at this and he set off again at a brisk walk.

"Beats me. He said once we were in there we just had to wait it out a little, that everything else would get taken care of."

Max nodded and followed at a lopsided gallop, calling out to Jamie who never looked back.

Brothers.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Be forewarned: I make a lot of metaphors involving clothes in this chapter. Hopefully I've selvedged enough serious moments from previous chapters to make this one worthwhile. Because even though my personal writing deadlines are looming over me I like to think I still spin a pretty good yarn, hmm? Or maybe I'm just going off on a weft here.**

**(All yoking aside, even if we ignore the fact that I am a terribly slow writer, I actually had a really hard time writing this chapter. Please let me know what you think – I hope it was worth the wait!)**

xxxx

_Don't sorrow, no don't weep_

_For tonight, at last_

_I am coming home _

- U2, "A Sort of Homecoming"

Rick squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to process Daryl's most recent news.

"So let's get this straight, now."

Daryl nodded. For a man so hell-bent on revenge, Rick was taking the news rather calmly.

"You think the Governor is using two little kids to get inside the prison?"

"I don't think, man, I know."

His brother had become a murderer under the Governor's orders. One of the many things that drove his hatred for _Philip_.

"He don't do his own dirty work. Gets others to. Treats 'em well then - "

"Kicks them out."

Daryl and Rick shot a glance over to Hershel. They'd met in the office, where Rick had found the keys to the cellblock so many weeks ago. Hershel occupied the chair in the corner of the cramped space; the other two men leaned against the desk.

Daryl nodded solemnly.

"You got it."

"So what do you think they have planned?" Hershel shifted in his chair. "Did the boys mention what their job would be, exactly?"

"They didn't know."

Rick chewed at the inside of his cheek.

"Maybe he's got them trained. You think? They'll get inside, we're supposed to let our guard down, then they'll attack. While we sleep." Rick looked at the other two men. "Something like that?"

Daryl shook his head. Things weren't adding up. The one eyed bastard wouldn't risk his life but he'd sure as hell want to be there to pull the trigger on Michonne. Rick. Everybody. Somehow, two teenage boys were supposed to get inside the prison, their prison, accomplish something the Governor would praise them for, and gain a load of respect or honour from their lunatic leader. Without even knowing what they were doing in the first place.

"These kids ain't killers," he added, "not like Randall."

Hershel nodded solemnly.

"You heard the boys talking, Daryl. Do you suppose they're an immediate threat?"

He shook his head. "Sounds like they're still scopin' the place out. We've got time yet."

Rick pushed himself off the desk, pacing back and forth in the tiny room.

"The Governor knew the prison. Tyreese already told us he drew a plan for him when they got to Woodbury. He doesn't need those kids to give him a layout of the place."

"That's 'cause he ain't gonna be there," Daryl interjected. " S'what I said before. He's sending these kids in alone."

"What, you think the Governor is spending all this time, planning, building an army of dumb kids and then letting them run with his plan? You can't tell me that sounds right to you."

Daryl slumped back against the wall. It didn't. What the hell was he missing?

Hershel cleared his throat and adjusted his fraying pant leg.

"I assume you two remember the history of World War II from school."

Daryl and Rick shared a glance. Daryl remembered more from school than he'd ever tell anyone. It wasn't in his genes to enjoy it. Damn well wasn't about to come home and start waxing poetic to his old man about schoolwork. Merle had managed to convince him it wasn't worth it, anyways.

"Yeah I remember," Rick offered.

Hershel nodded, eyeing them carefully.

"Then I assume you learned about the kamikaze."

Daryl felt like his stomach was going to drop out from under him. He could have taken the kids out. One, two bolts, they'd both be gone before the second could even realize the first one was dead. But what good would it have done? The crazy would only find two more suckers to replace them.

Rick didn't pretend to hide his shock either. He strode over to Hershel, almost uncomfortably close, resting a hand near where the old man's arm was propped up on the desktop.

"You think that's what he's planning? These brothers are kamikaze pilots?" he hissed.

Daryl winced at Rick's words; their painful truth. It made sense. The lack of preparation. Idol worship. The honour they'd acquire in doing it. They'd be dead but Daryl supposed that even the craziest ones believed they could enjoy honour in death. Then again, Jamie and Max probably didn't even know what was coming to them.

"It's only an idea."

"You think the Governor is sending two innocent kids in here to blow themselves up?"

"No."

Rick and Hershel turned, surprised, as if they'd forgotten Daryl was still in the room.

"The governor will. Probably got some real bookish types figuring out how to do it. He'll hang back I bet, wait 'til he sees 'em go in. Maybe they'll bring us out into the yard so he can watch."

Daryl scuffed his boot along the floor

"Then he'll press the button."

Ricks look softened as he seemed to consider what an attack like that would do to the prison population.

"We can't tell anyone."

Daryl glared at Rick.

"What?"

"He's right," Hershel admitted. "You said it yourself. We've got at least a week before anything will happen. Why worry everyone?"

Daryl shook his head, rubbed his eyes. He couldn't believe it.

"Can't leave everyone in the dark about it."

"No?" Rick asked. "What'll they do about it if they know?"

Daryl looked out the window that looked down onto the common area. He imagined Carol at the sink, wrist deep in cold suds. She'd worry about him going out every day. She's want to help prepare. He shook his head and looked to his feet.

"Fine."

"You sure?"

Daryl looked from one man to the other, Hershel's pale eyes creased at the corners.

"Yeah. You're right."

Rick nodded and then he, too, looked out into the common area.

"Thank you, Daryl." He clapped him on the shoulder before swiftly making his way towards the cellblock.

Hershel gathered his crutches and followed soon after, giving Daryl a nod on his way out.

Daryl picked up his crossbow and made his way to the window, to the people milling about, thinking about the people in their beds he wouldn't be able to tell.

xxxx

She was thankful that Beth had found her something to do. The days were long enough as is; add in the monotonous grey of the cell walls and the dull ache in her side and Carol could almost feel her temperature rising as cabin fever set in.

The sun had set an hour ago. She hadn't seen Daryl since that morning, but she wasn't worried. He almost always found something that needed to be done.

She straightened up in bed, stretching out her neck and her fingers. A pile of recently mended clothes sat, neatly folded at the foot of her bed. Aesthetic repairs to clothing weren't exactly essential to survival, but she liked to think she was keeping alive a tiny thread of normalcy. She'd been doing that since the quarry.

Sighing, she ducked her head and got back to it, pushing the needle through a stubborn seam and cursing under her breath that, during all of their supply runs, nobody in the group had ever brought back a thimble.

"I brought you these," a voice came from the entrance to the cell.

Beth stood with her arms cradling a neatly folded t-shirt and pill-covered sweater. She paused in the doorway, waiting on Carol before advancing any further.

"I hope you don't mind. I took them from the laundry area before Maggie and Glenn went in there to..."

She trailed off just then, eyes darting around the room, cheeks flushing.

"... Finish their washing."

From her spot in the doorway she could see the edges of Carol's mouth turning upwards, just barely discernible through the look of concentration that was etched on her face. Even in the growing darkness that had settled into the prison, Beth quickly recognized the charcoal grey fabric puddled in Carol's lap. The woman tugged and pushed at the needle with a devoted dexterity, like she'd create a seam with her two hands that was stronger than the material had been when it came off the loom. Like each loop through the denim weave closed a gap, healed an open wound as she brought the two pieces of worn fabric together.

Carol glanced up at Beth, whose eyes shone brightly over the dark half-moons that had settled into her skin beneath them. Carol just _knew_ that the girl had taken on both of their responsibilities for the day while she was holed up in bed. She hated the feeling of being useless, of creating more work for others rather than lessening their loads. Ever since the farm, she had been determined to never let that happen again.

"You're too kind, Beth. You can leave them on the chair."

Beth opened her mouth to offer Carol her help in getting dressed but closed it again when the woman immediately looked back down at the pair of faded jeans lying in her lap.

Out of the corner of her eye Carol could see Beth, arms still full of clothing, hovering in the doorway. Perhaps she had been too curt with her. She offered Beth a small smile as a polite notice of dismissal before returning her gaze to the frayed knees of Daryl's pants. Beth scurried over to the chair and set the clothes down before turning to head back out.

"Holler if you need anything," she called over her shoulder before making her way swiftly down the row of cells.

Carol shook her head and suppressed a smile, forcing the needle through the jeans one last time before winding the thread into a knot and breaking the tail ends off with her teeth. After all, she supposed, each of them had something to prove, if not to the others then at least to themselves.

xxxx

The t-shirt had been easy. She gathered it up in her hands and easily poked her head through, letting the loose cotton fall into place and slowly, carefully bringing her arms through the sleeves. The sweater, though, was trickier. She pulled her head through the opening but the rest of the garment didn't follow to her hips. Bringing one of her arms out, she got her elbow caught at the entrance to one of the sleeves. On any other day it was a trivial dilemma; hunch a shoulder, turn a torso until one hand was free. Repeat on the other side. But she was tired of the pain already, even though she'd withstood far worse in her past. She wanted to be healed, wanted to get beyond this part. She'd been a victim in her past life and hated it more than she'd realized until she stood alone in that jail cell, somebody else's old sweater trapped around her shoulders. With her other arm she tugged and tugged but the sweater resisted, another challenger in the world turned against them.

After a few more moments of vain struggle she dropped her head and reached her free arm out to the frame of the top bunk to steady herself. She drew in a steady breath and exhaled far more shakily than she was expecting. _Just another tug. One more should do it_. Pressing her lips together she tucked two fingers underneath her elbow and stretched the wool as far as she could. _Only half an inch more_. That was all she needed to release her arm, her frustration, her feeling of entrapment. Gathering the remains of her resolve, she raised her shoulder to her ear, gasping as she felt a rough, cool hand close itself around her trapped elbow, gently pushing it through the opening until it finally slipped free.

She didn't move for a moment, stunned into silence. The lumpy sweater bunched up over one of her shoulders.

"Sorry," he mumbled, taking a step away from her before she could turn to face him. She would have been close otherwise. Too close.

With one arm safely in place she hastily brought the other through its sleeve without much trouble. Smoothing the wool against her front, she spun around to look at him. Daryl held his breath, waiting for the joke, the teasing, or the scolding, which, inexplicably, would have made him feel far worse than the previous two.

"You're soaking wet."

He stared at her soundlessly. _That was it?_

"It's raining." His gaze flitted out of the cell and towards the window, where even in the darkness he could tell the air was calm. "Or, at least, it was."

She frowned and approached him, eyes full of concern and arms wrapped around her body, as if the cold were still getting through her layers of clothing. She carried herself stiffly but looked much stronger than she had that morning.

"You're not frozen?"

He shrugged. He was going to sock Glenn next time he saw him for keeping him from gaining access to the laundry room. Not that he would have wanted to see what was going on in there, but he liked to use it to change. Less foot traffic, fewer questions.

"It's a good thing I've been busy today or your things would still be down there."

Before he could open his mouth to reply she turned her back to him, bending at the knees to reach down and grab some of the clothes she'd folded neatly at the foot of her bunk. She kept one arm still wrapped around herself as she tossed his dry clothes at his chest. He caught them clumsily but didn't move, just watched her as she rolled up her sleeves and sat down on the bottom bunk facing him.

"Go on, before you catch a cold."

He raised his eyebrows, certain that even _she_ didn't realize what she was suggesting. Over the course of the last winter they'd all seen each other at varying degrees of indecency. They'd stumbled around corners, happened upon the same abandoned outhouse more times than he could count. By the time spring rolled around all shades of embarrassment had worn off, each of them realizing that they'd all been caught at some point or another.

This felt different, somehow. There could be no excuses when it wasn't an intrusion. No way of ducking your head, pretending you hadn't seen anything – or as Daryl had told Glenn once, claiming you'd tried your best but realized there hadn't been anything worth seeing at all.

Carol seemed to realize their situation soon after Daryl did, and she grabbed a hold of the metal above her head to stand herself up. His eyes followed her out the door, but he could still see her as she settled against the wall outside. He felt guilty watching her go, an odd taste of dissatisfaction landing in his throat at the notion that he'd effectively kicked her out of her cell – or maybe, he thought, _their_ cell – after she'd spent a good part of her day mending his things.

He quickly shed his vest and jacket, tossing them onto the stool behind him. It didn't make sense, this newfound guilt; little things like that didn't _matter_ with her. She was still just outside the doorway, waiting patiently to come back in. She'd wanted to have something to pass the day; there was little to do but sew. Merle had been right. He _was_ going soft.

His hands were quickly warming up but he still fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, finally reaching behind and pulling it up over his head before adding it to the pile on the stool. He finished changing in equal haste, pausing only for a moment to look at the dirt that stained the entire front of his pants. Evidence of the time he'd spent in hiding, eavesdropping on two teenage boys like some creep from the old world. He angrily threw it down onto the pile and ran his fingers through his hair. He hoped she wouldn't ask how he'd gotten so dirty. She'd believe what he told her. She always had. And that was the problem, time and again.

_We're just gonna locate that little girl and she's gonna be just fine._

"Knock, knock."

She brought him abruptly out of his reverie, already halfway across the cell by the time he turned to face her, one hand on his hip, the other trying to rub the tension out of the back of his neck.

"You clean up nice."

There it was. Back again. He rolled his eyes and brought his other hand to his hip. Carol smirked but then her eyes found the pile of wet clothes, sloppily arranged on the stool. A shirtsleeve hung low to the ground, the water already forming a legitimate puddle on the concrete floor. She moved to grab the clothes and hang them out on the railing but Daryl grabbed her arm and pulled her back before she could get a hold of anything.

"What d'you think you're doin'?"

He released her but she stayed near him, his fingers accidentally trailing down the inside of her forearm as he brought his own arm back to his side. Carol shivered at the slight touch, the lingering of his fingertips against her palm not going unnoticed as he narrowed his eyes, waiting on her reply.

"I was planning on hanging them just outside." She gestured towards the pile with her other arm, the one he hadn't grabbed. "They'll never dry like that."

She shifted uncomfortably in place, his eyes never leaving her face as he considered her words.

"Lord knows how your clothes are so soaked," she continued, "Tyreese said it was hardly drizzling most of the day."

Daryl could feel the quickening of his heart as it beat against his ribcage. She didn't need to know the truth. Not immediately, at least. Not when they still had at least another week before the Governor would even _think _about sending those kids to them.

As usual, given his silence, she was unperturbed. She turned away from him and gingerly leaned over her bunk, pulling the sheets back in preparation for bedtime.

"Did you fall into a pond or what?" She asked it as an afterthought, a half-joke, another thing for Daryl to roll his eyes at before letting it rest.

But he couldn't brush it off. She was getting too close to the truth, and the idea of having to lie outright sent a wave of panic through him. He reached out again without thinking, catching her by the wrist and throwing her completely off-guard. She jumped at his touch, free hand flying to her side as she unsuccessfully tried to mask the pain.

Daryl's eyes grew wide at the sight of her, his lingering anger dissipating quickly as she bit down on her bottom lip. He swallowed hard, heart still pounding, fervour of worry and remorse. Her eyes met his and she nodded once. Water under the bridge.

After a few more seconds she looked down. Daryl's eyes followed her gaze as it trailed down the length of his arm, where, to his surprise, his fingers were still wrapped tightly around her wrist. When her eyes reached his once more they held a look of mild surprise. _Amusement_, almost. Daryl immediately loosed his grip and moved to shove his hand into his pocket. She caught him halfway, deftly intertwining her fingers with his and bringing his hand close to her own chest.

For a moment she held it there, stared at the dip in his collarbone. The rise and fall of his chest like the metronome, steady, keeping time. The cracked skin of his knuckles catching on old wool fibres as she pulled him closer.

He was frozen; immobile. All of the instincts that told him to run; Merle's taunting in his head – _Dixon men ain't pansies like the rest_ – nagging in the corners of his mind. The reminder that he still held a secret from her ever-present in the dirty clothes piled in the corner of the room. But what good would it do, really? To tell her would be to go against what he and Rick had agreed upon. Didn't his word with Rick count for something, too? Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed her clean knife, innocent as ever, untouched since the previous night. It wasn't as if he was putting her in danger, after all. He'd make damn sure to keep those kids the hell away from the entire cellblock when the time came.

He shoved his free hand into his pocket and brought his thumb through one of his belt loops. Even after a day upstairs the faintest of lemon scents lingered about her. He remembered all the other times he'd been this close. He'd held her back, held her up. _Carried_ her, even. A touch on the shoulder, a grasping of the waist when the walkers got too close. All done out of necessity; as a favour; the smallest bit of reassurance. Merle's voice getting quieter in his head as the warmth from Carol's hand transferred itself to his own. _Yes_, he thought to himself, _that's what it was. Reassurance_. Maybe that was all she needed. He could do that.

_"Why?" she'd asked._

_"Because I think she's still out there_._"_

It was only the slightest of movements; so slight that even she herself didn't realize she was doing it. Without moving her feet she started to sway on the spot, placing her other hand at the nape of his neck.

Even as she moved she felt separate from herself. Like she was watching from the doorway, a passenger along for the ride.

"Daryl." Her breath was warm where his collar met his skin. "Remember when you came back?"

He cleared his throat, then cringed when he realized how loud it must have sounded, so close to Carol's ear.

"Yeah."

_With Merle_. That's what she meant, but didn't say it. _Remember when you came back with Merle_. She'd watched him leave – the camp, the farm, the prison – countless times, and she'd watched him come back hours, maybe a day later. But in her mind – in both of their minds – there was only one time worth remembering.

"I told you the prison was our home." She turned her face away from him, rested her ear on top of his shoulder. The rain had washed away the smell of his sweat and the clean shirt felt soft against her skin.

He swallowed hard and nodded into her hair.

"I meant you," she confessed.

She paused, felt his hand with hers, the sharing of warmth between them.

"You're home."

She waited another moment, knowing that if he hadn't yet pulled away he probably wasn't planning to. She lifted her head from his shoulder and brought her hand to rest against the back of his head. His hair had already begun to dry beneath her fingers.

She pulled back to see a million little thoughts flashing behind his eyes, words that he still wouldn't dare say out loud. And that was fine.

"Thank you," she said, tilting his head with her hand and bringing her forehead to rest against his.

He was careful, just then. Not because she was fragile, or weak, but because she was strong. He could make one wrong move and she'd be gone. _Unlikely_, a part of him said, _after all of this_. _It's unlikely_ _she'd go._ The other part of him, the one that saw Merle making his way out the front door and down the street, knew that strong people _could _go. They could leave and they could move on, and still, they could thrive. And so he was careful.

He could feel a tingling in his fingers from the hand that still hid deep inside his pocket. He removed it slowly, as if she was asleep and he didn't want to wake her. It lingered in midair, hovering over her ribcage, thinking about the back of her neck but afraid of being too bold.

With nowhere else to go it landed just above her hip, the last piece of their slow-moving waltz falling into place.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Ugh, OK I'm SUPER sorry again for the lateness of this chappie. I'd like to think I have an excuse this time, since I was actually away for a bit between these last two chapters but I still feel bad about it. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed the last chapter's relative happiness, 'cause I'm bringing back the angst in this one. Enjoy! (Also, this is my first time writing the Governor (even though there isn't much of him here) so I'd love to know what you think!) Thanks for sticking around!**

xxxx

_If you're alone it must be you_

_Who wants to be apart _

- Elliott Smith, "Alameda"

It had been a successful run. Just the two of them, Daryl and Rick. They worked so well together that it had been fun, almost, to root through the school's cafeteria and nurse's office. They'd only managed to fill four duffle bags with supplies – hardly enough to last a few days – but Daryl, oddly, felt like they'd accomplished much more. He liked working with Rick. Almost _missed_ having as much direct contact with him as he'd had on the run.

Daryl snorted as they trundled along in the silver pick-up. Rick sent a sidelong glance at him then returned his sights to the road. _You goin' queer too, baby brother? You and Officer Friendly?_ _Shoulda known, you two is like Tweedle Dee and Dumbass together you know that?_ Daryl squinted as the setting sun blasted through the gaps in the treeline. Merle didn't _get_ relationships. Friendships. Anything that wasn't blood wasn't worth his time, and even then he had a hard time acknowledging it.

The truck rolled up over a hill as Daryl caught movement in the distance up ahead. Rick saw it too, and he pulled over to the side of the road. The two of them ducked down, out of sight, weapons at the ready. From his hunched position in the passenger side of the vehicle, Daryl saw the Jeep approach, bringing with it a dreadful feeling of regret that caused his chest to tighten involuntarily. The beige vehicle sped down the road, joyously bumping over potholes as it zipped by the two men hiding in their truck who only caught a glimpse of the one-eyed driver as it retreated down the road that led away from the prison. Before he could even straighten himself up, Rick hit the gas, throwing Daryl violently against the seat as they took to the road again. He could barely put two sentences together in his mind, so frenetic and disjointed were his thoughts. As they neared the edge of the tree-line, the outer fences, so reassuring in their peaceful state, looked like what they truly were – guardians of the prison, keeping people in. Trapping them. Leaving them no way to escape.

Even from the edge of the clearing he could see _things_ on the ground. Shapes. And with the windows rolled down he could smell it, too. An acrid, burning stench that came from explosives. Explosives and death. The other man slowed the truck down when they entered the outer yard, as if to give themselves time to regain their composure before passing through the final gate. With a deep breath he caught Rick's eye, and he knew. They both knew. Daryl remembered how Hershel was spending the day inside, in the infirmary, sorting through medication and ointments. He'd taken Karen with him, to show her what the different pills were for. He'd said that it was just in case. That it was best to have as many people as possible knowing what needs to be done, medically. In case any of them should... Daryl swallowed the bile that was rising in his throat. From what he could see, some of them had. He feared the seat beneath him might drop out the bottom of the truck, heard a roaring in his ears and saw warping in the edges of his vision. The shapes were bodies.

He looked for her in the standing crowd. The bending, kneeling, crying crowd. _Maybe she's gone inside to get medical supplies_. The pick-up inched ever closer to the inner fence. He resisted the urge to swing open the passenger-side door and barrel roll out into the walker-filled yard. He didn't want to see any of it in detail, didn't think he'd be able to stand it.

They were getting close, now, almost too close. Daryl was starting to recognize the people standing and the people... lying. The ones that were gone – for surely _somebody _must have been gone – didn't know what had hit them. But the ones that were still there? They didn't know either, and Daryl wanted to throw up at the notion that _he_ knew. Him and Rick and Hershel. All three of them knew, and none of them had been there. His breaths started coming on fast and shallow, but before the truck could cross through the battered fence Daryl felt a cool, tingling sensation sweep across his forehead. The world in front of him fizzled out, extinguished, as he faded away beside Rick in the shiny silver pick-up truck.

xxxx

Carol frowned and rubbed her hands together, blowing a warm breath between her palms before reaching out and brushing a few sweat-soaked strands of hair off of Daryl's forehead. She'd tried softly calling out his name but he tossed and turned in his bunk, deaf to her calm pleas. She didn't want to startle him by speaking too loudly but she also knew that too strong a touch would only make things worse. The safety of sleep could be betrayed so easily. She knew that more than anyone, except, perhaps, him.

"Daryl," she repeated again, this time trailing two fingers down to his temple and resting them there, waiting for a sign that he'd heard her voice.

"Daryl, are you alright?"

Her voice broke through the chaos in his mind and his eyes flew open, immediately thrown awake by the brightness in the cell. He jolted upright; not noticing as Carol quickly withdrew her hand from his head and brought it to her stomach, where she cradled it against her sternum.

"It's getting late," she lied, "I didn't want you to miss out on any good hunting."

He brought a hand to his forehead and rubbed it fiercely, the cool sensation quickly replaced by a warm rush of embarrassment. He could feel Carol's eyes on him, watching him carefully, and he wished she'd leave him be.

"Ain't huntin' today," he grunted, "don't you know that?"

He brushed past her without looking her in the eye, jumping down from the bunk and shoving his feet into his boots.

She took a step back, mouth slightly open, unsure of what to say in reply. He was gruff by nature, and difficult to read sometimes, but it had been a long time since he'd been outright _rude _to her. She watched him hastily wind his bootlaces around his fingers, as if desperate to escape her presence, and wrapped her own fingers around the cool metal bed frame.

She'd feared this the moment she'd brought him in close. Frozen under her touch, but not wholly unreceptive. He'd gotten so good, so calm, so _permissive_ with her. But she wanted him closer, and needed to say so. She felt the sting of tears behind her eyes as she watched him straighten up, adjusting his jacket over his shirt and running his fingers through his hair like a makeshift comb. It took him a grand total of one minute to get himself ready for the day, and still he said nothing to her.

The urge to laugh at his indifference towards personal hygiene was crushed by the sudden coldness he was sending her way. She watched him disappear out of their cell without another word, calling out after him, a "stay safe" in nothing more than a whisper that she knew he wouldn't hear.

The thought had crossed her mind the previous night; that he didn't feel as she did – that he didn't find comfort in her like she did in him. But that thought vanished as soon as she felt his hand at her waist, physically cool but warm in intention. He didn't say anything; didn't need to. Never _had _needed to, now that she thought about it. She supposed she'd imagined the way his thumb lightly brushed up and down her side, so slight that he could have been doing it without even realizing it. She was now sure that the darkness of the night had played tricks on her, casting shadows that made it seem like he'd glanced down at her lips for a split-second after they'd broken apart.

She sighed and gathered the pile of mended garments into her arms, pausing in front of Daryl's damp clothes before leaving them where they were. They'd dry on their own, eventually.

xxxx

It took almost all of Jamie's self-restraint to keep himself from reaching out and shoving his brother in the arm. The kid wouldn't stop nervously fidgeting in his chair, like he used to do as a toddler sitting at the kitchen table.

_"Let those legs rest while they can, Maxi," their mother would say. "Wasting all that energy when you aren't even going anywhere._

_She'd glance across the table to Jamie, who'd nod in agreement with his mother before turning a judgmental eye onto Max, still doe-eyed and a whole four years younger than his brother._

_"Running yourself into quicksand," Jamie would proclaim proudly, puffing his chest out while his mother nodded approvingly._

_Max would immediately still, sneaking his hands underneath his thighs and letting his feet hang loosely over the edge of the chair. Anything to prove to them that he, too, could sit still, despite his desperate desire to leave the table and retreat to his toys._

He'd never seen quicksand, or really understood it, but Jamie remembered how his mother would repeat the phrase often in their presence.

He imagined what he would have been feeling if they hadn't found the prison. A chance let pass, opportunity wasted. They'd finally found a place where they belonged and Jamie wasn't about to let a chance to prove himself slip away.

In the chair beside him, Max cracked his knuckles over and over again while staring blankly at the wall across the room from them, its yellowed wallpaper losing its grip as it swayed, half-peeled, in the breeze passing through the doorway.

Jamie clenched his fists into his thighs and tried to ignore the crisp popping sound that broke through the silence as Max worked through his fingers. Suddenly a tall, trenchcoat-clad figure swept through the doorway and sat gracefully in a chair, facing the two brothers who immediately gave him their undivided attention.

"So you found it after all," the man stated in a strong, deep voice.

Jamie quickly stole a glance over to Max, who had stopped playing with his knuckles.

"Yes, sir." He sat up straighter in his chair, gaining a few more inches on Max, who still sat hunched beside him.

"Martinez tells me it took you no time at all." The one-eyed man raised an eyebrow expectantly at the two boys.

Jamie gulped and bit his lip. He and Max had finally caught sight of the prison's outer gate as the sun skirted above the horizon. The Mexican guy – _Martinez_ – had given them until sundown to find the place when they'd met up with him at noon that day. _Congratulations boys, you've accomplished nothing all morning. But... The boss is busy today_, he chewed with his mouth open – gum, tobacco – Jamie didn't know. _You're lucky I got nothing better to do. Go on; show me you aren't as useless as I think you are_.

Jamie had never liked Martinez, and he wasn't sure how to take the Governor's comment. Had Martinez lied to the Governor to help them? Or was this just a test of the brothers' honesty?

"We did as we were told," Jamie said confidently.

Beside him, Max nodded in agreement.

"You were told to find it by noon." The Governor leaned forward in his chair, rested his elbows on his thighs.

Jamie felt his pulse quicken and he looked at Max, whose eyes had grown wide with fear. They'd never seen their leader get mad before, and didn't want themselves to be the test subjects.

"Well, boys, I trusted you to do as I asked."

The Governor reached a hand up to adjust his eyepatch. He exhaled loudly and leaned back in his chair, then brought a hand to the gun resting in his holster.

"You're good kids," he said at last. "Shame you couldn't do the one thing I asked."

Jamie looked to the floor, a tight, twisted feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. All that hope he'd had for himself, for his dumb brother, gone in an instant. They'd be alone again, just the two of them. This had been their chance to escape the quicksand.

The scraping of chair legs against the tiled floor caused Jamie to jump and he looked up to see the Governor already halfway to the door.

"I'd like to say I never give people second chances."

He paused and smiled, a flicker of malevolence flashing across his face as he lost himself in past triumphs.

"But over time I've learned to never say never."

He tilted his head to the side and gazed through the two brothers sitting before him, awash in reminiscence.

Jamie frowned and looked to his brother, who was equally confused.

"A friend told me that once."

A slow, strange smile crept over the Governor's face and Jamie had to actively prevent himself from shuddering in his seat. The man sighed contentedly and flashed the brothers a now-charming grin.

"One of the best friends I ever had."

He turned on his heel and made for the doorway.

"You boys going to be ready to go in a week or two?"

Jamie and Max glanced nervously at each other, more surprised at the Governor's sudden change of mood than the fact that they were still being chosen. Jamie felt himself nod once before the Governor swept out of the room just as quickly as he'd entered it.

The heaviness left in the Governor's wake trapped them in place.

_The more you struggle, the deeper you sink,_ their mama had told them before clearing the dinner plates from the table. _The more you struggle, the deeper you sink_.

xxxx

He knew from the way she'd looked at him worriedly that he'd been dreaming out loud. Those pale eyes, ever watchful, scanning him as if they were an X-ray machine, looking for parts of him that may have been broken but looked alright from the outside. It had been too sudden a change, from a world where she might have been dead, to a world where she was very much alive. And the relief that came with the realization he'd been dreaming came crashing down, colliding with her concerns for him and the secrets he still held against her. They coalesced into such a powerful mix of admiration and self-loathing that he did what he always did best, and fled.

"Look, all I'm saying is that there's gotta be a more permanent solution to all of this. Can't we take the time to re-build the outer gates, give ourselves some green space?"

Daryl glared from his spot on the stairs as Rick and Tyreese entered the common area speaking at an uncomfortably loud volume.

"We're trying our best," Rick hissed, taking a step towards Tyreese. "We have other priorities right now, things that are more important than a play yard or a spot for a Sunday stroll."

Rick glanced over to Daryl for only a fraction of a second, a silent acknowledgement, a _no, I haven't forgotten about the Governor and those two kids._

"Hey man," Tyreese held a placating hand up in midair, "I'm not asking for this because we need time for recreation."

He looked around the room and lowered his voice, still loud enough for Daryl to hear.

"They were a close-knit community, these Woodbury people. They've been together a long time since the outbreak started. They're still grieving."

Rick pursed his lips and stared straight back at Tyreese, actively telling himself not to roll his eyes at the man.

"And I know that that's the world we live in now," Tyreese continued, as if he could read Rick's mind. "We don't have the time or resources to grieve anymore. I get that. Sasha and me... We've lost people too. We're like you; we know what it's like."

He lowered his hand and brought it to his waist.

"But they don't. Most of them are still adjusting. If they could just have the _space_ to visit her grave without having to ward off biters I think it would do them all a load of good."

Rick considered the man's request, thought of the people they'd lost. He honestly didn't understand how physical proximity to a rotting corpse could help a person heal, but he'd promised himself he'd keep an open mind. He took a deep breath.

"It would take a lot of manpower," Rick began, and looked around the common area at the people eating their breakfast.

His eyes landed on Daryl, who had been watching the exchange with such an intense curiosity that he didn't even notice Carol as she glided towards the kitchen and deposited a pile of folded clothes on the counter.

Tyreese nodded in agreement, "I'm sure I'll be able to find enough people who'd be interested in helping out."

"Helping out with what?"

Daryl turned when he heard Carol's voice, unaware that she'd even been in the room with them. Even though it wasn't important, he wondered how long she'd been standing there.

"Securing the outer yard against walkers so that we can use it again," Rick replied.

She nodded slowly, looking from Rick to Daryl as if she wanted to know what he, too, thought of the whole plan.

"Do we have any ideas how we'd accomplish that?" She looked back to Rick, who seemed much more eager than Daryl to return her eye contact.

"We'll find a way," Rick nodded towards Tyreese, "when we're dealing with the death of our own we offer every measure necessary to help. It eases the healing."

He reached out a hand to Tyreese, who shook it firmly, nodded his thanks.

Carol couldn't help but frown at the exchange, looking from the two men to Daryl, who had watched the entire conversation unfold without breathing a word. The hunter's face had been stoic, decidedly turned away from hers the entire time. Surely she couldn't have been the only one out of the two of them to hear the contradiction in Rick's words. She bit back the urge to mention to Rick how one of _their own_, from way back in _Atlanta,_ still lay rotting under the midday sun. Not once had she heard Rick or any of the others offer an ounce of help to Daryl following Merle's death, although she supposed they'd probably given their condolences privately. Daryl wasn't one to ask for help – hell, he was hardly one to accept help if it were offered to him. But that was the problem – Carol was convinced that she was the only one, aside from Daryl, who still thought of Merle and how things had been left unfinished. The others had moved on from the loss – for, other than in manpower, it had hardly been a loss at all – rather quickly and cleanly. But she saw Daryl's loss every day just like she still felt her own, however dull an ache it had become.

She sidled over to where Daryl was perched on the stairs, noticing how he subtly stiffened as she settled down next to him.

"I feel like Rick's forgotten about someone," she began, tentatively. "Do you?"

She didn't miss how his jaw clenched at her words. He balled his hand into a fist and looked down at his feet, the stairs, the floor. Anywhere but at her.

"I'm sure you didn't, but I just wanted to make sure you remember that my offer still stands," she continued.

He cast a sidelong glance in her direction, catching the way she looked down at her own hands as if she should be ashamed for caring. He hated how she could be so good, so honest, so _thoughtful_, while he sat next to her, visions of an exploded courtyard still etched into his mind. The most vivid dream he'd had in a long time playing out before him, demonstrating the danger of keeping secrets from one another in such a precarious world.

Her kindness made him feel lightheaded, like he didn't deserve any of it, and he was overwhelmed by the desire to take his balled-up fist and slam it into the metal railing beside him.

"I don't want your help," he muttered, the exact opposite of what he truly felt, yet the easiest way to escape his own crushing guilt.

He'd held it in for so long that he couldn't stop it, couldn't reel it back in. The expression on her face as he finally looked at her, _really_ looked at her, for the first time since waking up. A little bit of hurt, yes, but disappointment more than anything.

"I don't want your pity, neither," he spat, before storming off towards the tombs.

Carol didn't follow but watched him go, brushing the wetness from her cheeks and licking the salt from her lips. She took a few steadying breaths before hoisting herself up off the stairs and heading back to her cell, where she'd be sure to remove Daryl's clothes from the chair and let them hang on the railing outside. He'd probably need them once he'd finished his work for the day.


	14. Chapter 14

_I can see it in your eyes like I taste your lips_

_And they both tell me that we're better than this_

- Modest Mouse, "Little Motel"

He ventured into one of the smaller cellblocks, alone, crossbow strapped onto his back, knife in hand. There weren't many walkers and he handled them easily, dropping them to the ground faster than bottles at target practice. Between kills he saw Carol's face and the expression she'd have as he told her he'd cleared a cellblock. She'd be worried for a fleeting moment, imagining what could have happened to him while he was on his own. But then she'd be fine. She'd nod and ask him practical questions, tell him she was glad he was back safely, and move on.

As he moved down the block he plunged his knife deeper, ripped the blade out quicker. She'd understand. He hated that she'd understand.

For every corpse that hit the concrete Daryl saw her face even more clearly in his mind. As he moved along it changed and evolved until it wasn't the face he would return to, but the face he'd left. The one that was more disappointed in him than mad at him. He sank the cool metal into a particularly milky eye socket. And her eyes. Those eyes. The ones that spoke to him in the millisecond he'd looked at her, before he'd stormed away. Like they knew what he was actually feeling, rather than what he allowed to the surface. The ones that said, _Yes, you get mad. It's not really for me._

He finally reached the end of the corridor and was confronted with a pair of wide doors, closed, but not locked. He released a heavy breath, held his knife up high, almost over his head. He didn't like that she knew him this well. Worse, he didn't like that _he _knew how well she knew him. His heart pounded, anticipation building inside of him as the great unknown threat pawed at the other side of the door. He could be greeted by dozens of them, devoured in an instant. Or he could handle them. Take them down methodically, rhythmically. It was the only way he knew how. Daryl blinked quickly, waited for the doors to swing open. His mind was starting to swim in circles.

xxxx

He licked his lips in anticipation, fingers adjusting their grip on the hilt of his knife ever so slightly. He felt like he'd come across a buck or some other equally appetizing piece of meat and just needed to wait for the perfect opportunity to strike. _Any moment now_. He widened his stance, focused on the tarnished metal handles, waited for the doors to part. He _needed_ the doors to part. _Wanted_ a wave of walkers, a surge of adrenaline; anything to bring him focus, center his mind. Get _her_ out of there for just a few moments so he could calm down and get on with his day.

It was a let-down when nothing came bursting out at him. He called out to the other side of the doors but nothing called back. Just pure, unhindered silence. With his free hand he reached out, yanked the door open, and stood back. The room on the other side was bathed in strips of brightness, alternating patterns of light and dark as daylight streamed through the barred windows, flecks of dust dancing in their midday spotlight.

Daryl squinted and advanced when, still, nothing jumped out at him. He lowered the knife and looked around at the abandoned room. Worn wooden tables – just a few – surrounded him, chairs scattered and toppled around their edges. He took a step towards one of the tables and noticed how softly and quietly his foot was received against the floor, in stark contrast to the usual dull echoes of rubber on concrete. He paused, looked down; a cheap, knock-off Persian rug, tangled at the fringe and worn through in uneven patches, had been spread across the floor, a large welcome mat meant to add warmth to what Daryl quickly realized was the prison library.

It wasn't a large room by any means, holding no more than ten shelves' worth of books. Daryl took a moment, lowered his knife. He inhaled deeply and felt the thick air fill his lungs, a years' worth of dust and mildew disturbed by his intrusion. It was obvious the library had made it through the initial outbreak relatively unscathed. The grime on the windowpanes was thick, and his feet made dust-free tracks on the rug like footprints in the snow.

He ran a finger along a tabletop, tracing a line through the dust that piled up on his finger before he brought his hand down and wiped his finger on his jeans. The quietness around him was eerie; he wasn't used to smelling simple mildew and dust when over the past year he'd grown accustomed to stenches that were far worse. And he didn't like how _untouched_ the place was; didn't like how time seemed to have frozen for the room, not a single splatter of blood on the walls or the floor, no desperate messages scrawled onto the tables in ink, or worse.

He felt like he was in some pathetic museum exhibit. _A Journey Back Through Time_. He wasn't a huge fan of libraries. Oddly enough, that had always been Merle's thing. He'd leave his brother alone for a day to his booze and his pills, come back and find him sprawled out on the floor, head propped up against the sofa, the most serious of looks on his face. A yellowing hardcover open mid-way through. The stamp on the inside cover bearing the logo of the local library and the date when it was due back – weeks earlier. The name of the last member to check it out – not Merle, who preferred to slip in after-hours for fun, replacing _National Geographic_ with porn just for shits, and nabbing fare that was far more literary than he'd ever admit.

_"I can't go back, little bro," Merle slurred once, "M'card's expired. They won't let me in."_

Daryl dragged the back of his hand across his forehead, remembered how Carol sat next to him on the step. He took a step towards one of the shelves, scanning the spines for something interesting. Cooking. Photography. Business. He wrinkled his nose as he moved along the row. Hell, he didn't even know what he was looking for, but he figured there had to be something good there, out of everything.

xxxx

He had at least reached the correct aisle, if the signs on the ends of the shelves were to be trusted. He may not have been a frequent library visitor but he knew the alphabet. It wasn't tough. Turning the corner, he stopped dead in his tracks. It was a sight so common he shouldn't have been surprised, but in the library it seemed oddly out of place. He didn't even need to cover his nose anymore, the stench was so familiar.

At first glance he felt nothing more than his usual disdain. Such soulless things. _Why waste a thought for them when they can't even think for themselves?_ Dumbass was curled up against the wall, between two shelves at the end of a row. Balled up in a fetal position, some pathetic, childlike thing that went off by itself to die after getting bit. From the opposite end of the row he raised his crossbow, watching it through the crosshairs. It wasn't _sleeping_, exactly. He figured sleep didn't really exist for those that were never truly awake. But it was some form of hibernation, like he'd seen before.

He approached it slowly, lowered his weapon to get a better look at the thing. Clad in a prison jumpsuit, just like all the others. He cocked his head, looked at its withered arms which, even in death and reanimation, were wrapped tightly around its knees. He raised a foot off the floor and wound it back, figuring it was only worth putting the walker down if it was given a chance to have at him. He took one more look at the prisoner's gaunt face, skin stretched over cheekbones, and lowered his foot back down.

The floor surrounding the creature was clean. Not a drop of blood, no rotting entrails. He leaned in as close as he could without coming within arms' reach of the thing and looked it up and down. It was clean, so to speak. No evidence of physical struggle, no open wounds, not much rot. Daryl straightened back up, bringing his crossbow to his side. Damn thing hadn't even been bit.

He'd been disgusted at first, by the walker, thinking that this thing – _person,_ really, in the beginning – had been bit, gone off by itself to wait, weakly and miserably, for reanimation. His upper lip curled up just thinking about it. He prayed he'd always have the balls to do himself in, if that's what it came down to, in the end. It was really the only way to go once the deal was sealed.

But to see that it _hadn't _been bit... He didn't feel sorry for it, not by a long shot. But he leaned his weapon against the shelf and unsheathed his knife, holding it heavily in his hand. For the first time ever, he considered it. Not its life or some sentimental crap like that, but he considered how a single prisoner may have come to be there, alone in the library, hopeful he'd be able to wait out the end of normal civilization. Maybe he'd been planning to wait until the executions were over. Maybe he was somebody who'd wanted to come out, but never did. Didn't know that he carried it, too. Turned.

Daryl spat at its feet and gave it a good kick in the shin. Slowly, the prisoner began moving its limbs, turned its face upwards to blindly set its eyes upon Daryl's own face. It took a whiff of its surroundings and bared its teeth, lips curling away into a macabre grimace that caused Daryl to take a step back, out of the walker's arm's reach. Bitten or not, it was still pathetic. Hiding alone to wait out the storm; quietly fading away from the reality of life. Daryl adjusted his grip on the knife and raised it above his head as the walker raised itself onto its hands and knees, lashing out in Daryl's direction as it. Or maybe it had simply gone away, too afraid to face the things that threatened the status quo.

With one fierce kick in the knees Daryl sent the walker tumbling before him, arms flailing as it tried to grab at his untied bootlaces. _Ain't nothin' left of the status quo, amigo_. Daryl reached down and pulled the undead prisoner up by its hair, one last bout of anger boiling up in him as he crashed its skull against the wall. He felt an untamed release of energy, wild, but final. _Hide all you want, the storm finds you_.

He pulled on the front of the walker's shirt, pressed his forearm against its collarbone as it snapped at him futilely. He narrowed his eyes, winning the one-sided staring contest, and saw the remains of what the man used to be, when he'd played tough on the outside. A coward. One final, definite swell of rage coursed through him as he plunged the knife so deeply into its eyesocket that the blade completely disappeared from view. He ripped it out violently, his own chest heaving as he took a step back, still seeing red. One last pulse that rippled through to the body on the rug, lifeless at last.

And then, it was gone.

He grabbed the book from the shelf, wiped his knife clean, and headed back.

xxxx

She surprised him while he was sitting on the stoop, absent-mindedly fiddling with some bolts. He heard the door behind him grind to a close, felt her footsteps against the metal as she stepped out behind him, held his breath as he waited for her to take a seat beside him, as she so often did, uninvited. But then, a few seconds of silence, and nothing more. He kept his fingers working but turned his head ever so slightly, a movement he hoped even she wouldn't notice.

From behind Daryl, Carol looked out onto the yard. She couldn't help but smile, watching Glenn, Maggie, Tyreese, Karen and Sasha move in formation through the yard – the _real_ yard, the one with grass – towards the gate. From between the outer fences Carl and Beth banged sticks and metal objects against the chain link in an attempt to draw walkers away from the central group. The sight was different, but oddly the same.

She felt Daryl's eyes on her as she leaned against the wall behind him, still casting her own gaze out into the distance. She wasn't ready for eye contact. Not yet, at least. She wanted to test the waters first, feel out her position. One look at him and it would all be brought about too fast.

He watched her feet from where he sat, over his shoulder, out of the corner of his eye. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she leaned against the wall. Daryl turned back to the bolt in his hand and rolled it between his palms.

"I cleared out A Block."

Carol squinted into the sunlight, brought a hand up to shield her eyes. He was choosing to speak first. A change, for once. She took it to be a good thing.

"Didn't take very long," she noted.

He shrugged at his feet.

"Weren't many of 'em in there."

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her, and dug her hands deep into the pockets of her sweater. She'd made a mistake, mentioning Merle. That much was obvious. And the night before, when she'd finally taken that step forward, and realized it had been one step too far.

When she responded only with silence, Daryl spoke once more, his olive branch for all the things he'd never said.

"I found a library too; maybe they got scared away by all the books."

He winced at his own words, so forced and unnatural. He didn't do humour very well. At least, not intentionally. Carol pressed her lips together to hold down the tightness building in her throat. She'd come outside fearing he wouldn't want to say anything to her, afraid she'd find herself speaking to the back of his head. But the way he seemed to be glossing over what had happened between the two of them was worse, and she couldn't explain why. They thrived on letting the petty things go, filtering out the moments that would only bog them down in pointless struggles. Carol cleared her throat and took a breath. She was stronger than this, _whatever _this _was_.

"Maybe."

_Maybe_. Maybe they were scared by all the things that were different, all the things they hadn't yet learned. Or maybe they were scared because they weren't alone anymore.

Daryl could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as a chill swept through the prison gates. Even without a face he knew how to read into a single word.

"Least now we have more space, right?" He turned his head completely to the side now, looked up at her face. Her grey-blue eyes cast a long glance above and away from him. He was trying. He really was. Trying to tell her he had moved on from before. He was fine.

Carol nodded, almost imperceptibly. She was tired of his small-talk, like he was forcing himself along conversation. They thrived on silence because that's what they understood the best. Silence brought out the truth while words always held the potential to mask it. And she was sure, almost completely, that he was masking something.

"There's too many of us all holed up in C anyway, figured this way we wouldn't be so close to each other all the time."

He shifted uncomfortably on the step. Her silence was agonizing.

"Is that what you want?" The words escaped without a thought for their consequence. She didn't even know what_ she_ wanted from him, exactly.

"What're you sayin'?" He looked back up at her, felt the continued chill in the air.

Carol bit her lip, dared herself to speak what she'd been thinking all day; what she'd been afraid to accept. He was bothered, and all the signs were there to indicate that he was bothered by her actions. She was afraid of what it would mean for the group. _Yes_, she thought to herself, _for the group. That's all._

"I'm saying you're running away again."

He gripped the bolt in his hand so tightly he thought it might break under his palms. Was _that_ what she thought? He drew his eyebrows close together, her face a puzzle he was trying to piece together.

"Daryl, if that's what you want it's what you want and nobody can stop you. You're a grown man. You make your own choices, you run your own life."

He looked away from her, then, as her eyes narrowed on the action in the field and her voice gained a strength and an edge that had been missing just seconds before. He needed to tell her. Screw Rick, screw their little _agreement_. He'd tell her. He would. He'd share it, and he wouldn't be alone.

"But you're also with us, Daryl. You're with us like Merle never was." She paused, wondered if she should have brought up Merle again.

No, he would take it. He needed to, for both of their sakes.

"And when you're with people you owe it to them to handle what they throw at you. It's how people work. It's how we survive."

He instinctively brought a hand to his knee, tried picking at the frayed edges that had formed so long ago, only to find himself running his fingers along a bumpy seam, instead.

"Even if you don't like it, you tell them so. You don't run."

She uncrossed her arms and took one last look out onto the field, where the group of five had begun to rig up old metal and wire across the outside gate. She was always so careful. It was all she could afford to be.

"And if you do you're no better than the ones who ran from their books."

Daryl became engrossed in her stitches, so careful and even. He didn't like it, but he'd expected it. A tiny part of him realized he'd gone outside hoping she'd meet him there, too.

"At least the books never cared for their people."

When he turned to speak to her feet once more they'd already retreated, back inside.

**A/N: Please, allow me to use a sports analogy here... Sometimes you have games that go horribly. Just one-sided blowouts where nothing goes right. There isn't even anything to be learned from the defeat, you just need to file and forget it. This chapter is a file and forget chapter for me... Didn't really turn out how I wanted and there's a bunch more stuff I wanted to include but in the end I just needed to post it. Get it out of my system. It was hanging around in my computer for way too long.**

**Anyway, now that I've told you how terrible I think this chapter was, please leave a review and let me know if you agree! **


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